IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


: 


*% 


1.0 


1.1 


m  m 

^  U&    12.0 


u& 


llli  1^  u^ 

< 

6"     

► 

■> 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporalion 


23  VKIST  MAW  STRUT 

\MIUTIR,N.Y.  UStO 

(716)  •73-4503 


■»^ 


A^> 


1 


> 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/iCIViH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Instituta  for  Historical  IMicroraproductiont  /  Inatitut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  liistoriquas 


<7^m 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notas  tachniquas  at  bibiiographiquaa 


The  Institute  hae  attempted  to  obtain  the  bast 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checlced  below. 


D 


□ 


D 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagte 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur^a  et/ou  pelliculte 


I     1   Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


□   Coloureu  maps/ 
Cartes  giographiquas  an  couleur 

□   Coloured  inic  (I.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

I     I   Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli<l  avec  d'autres  documents 


rri    Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 


along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serrie  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 

distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intirieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouttes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  Atait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6tA  fiim6es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentairas: 


L'institut  a  microfilm*  la  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'ii  lui  a  At*  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  dAtaiis 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
mo  i/ication  dans  la  mAthoda  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquto  ci-dessous. 


Tl 
to 


|~~|   Coloured  pages/ 


D 
D 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu*  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagtes 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaurias  et/ou  pelliculAes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxe< 
Pages  dAcolories.  tachattes  ou  piquAes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  dAtachtes 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  inAgale  de  I'impression 

includes  supplementary  matarii 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppKmentaire 


I — 1  Pages  damaged/ 

I — I  Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

r~^  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 

I      I  Pages  detached/ 

ry]  Showthrough/ 

r~1  Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I     I  includes  supplementary  material/ 


T» 

P< 
of 
fil 


Oi 
b< 
th 
sii 

01 

fil 
si 

01 


Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Mition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  At*  filmAes  A  nouveau  de  fa^on  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


Tl 
si 

Tl 
w 

M 
dl 
ei 
bi 
ri( 
n 
n\ 


26X 


30X 


y 

12X                            1CX                            2im                            MX                            3SX                            32X 

^^mm^^ 


Th«  copy  fllm«d  h«r«  has  b««n  r«produc«d  thanks 
to  tho  gonorotity  of: 

Saminary  of  Qutbae 
Library 


L'oxomplairo  film4  fut  raproduit  grica  i  la 
gin4roaitA  da: 

Slminaira  da  QuAbae 
Biblioth4qua 


Tha  imagaa  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  l»aat  quality 
possibia  conaidaring  tha  condition  and  lagibliity 
of  tha  original  copy  and  in  liaaping  with  tha 
filming  contract  spaclficationa. 


Laa  imagaa  suivantaa  ont  At*  raproduitaa  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattatA  da  I'axampialra  film*,  at  9n 
confcrmit*  avac  laa  conditions  du  eontrat  da 
fiimaga. 


Original  copias  in  printad  papar  covara  ara  filmad 
baginning  with  tha  front  oovar  and  anding  on 
tha  last  paga  with  a  printad  or  illuatratad  impras* 
sion,  or  tha  bacic  oovar  whan  appropriata.  All 
othar  original  copiaa  ara  filmad  baginning  on  tha 
first  paga  with  a  printad  or  Illuatratad  impraa- 
sion.  and  anding  on  tha  laat  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impraaaion. 


Laa  axamplairaa  originaux  dont  la  couvartura  an 
papiar  aat  imprimia  sont  film*s  9n  common^ant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darnlAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  aalon  la  caa.  Toua  laa  autraa  axamplairaa 
originaux  aont  filmte  90  commandant  par  la 
pramiAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  amprainta 
d'impraaaion  ou  d'illustration  at  mn  tarminant  par 
la  darniAra  paga  qui  comporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 


Tha  laat  racordad  frama  on  aach  mierofleha 
shall  contain  tha  aymbol  — ^  (moaning  "CON- 
TliyUED").  or  tha  aymbol  ▼  (maaning  "END"), 
whichavar  appliaa. 


Un  daa  aymbolaa  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
darniira  imaga  da  chaqua  mierofleha,  salon  la 
caa:  la  aymbola  -^  signifla  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
aymbola  ▼  signifla  "FIN". 


IMapa.  plataa.  charu,  ate.  may  ba  filmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratioa.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraiy  includad  in  ona  axpoaura  ara  filmad 
baginning  in  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar.  Ml  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  framaa  aa 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrama  iliuatrata  tha 
mathod: 


Laa  cartaa.  planchaa.  tablaaux.  ate.  pauvant  Atra 
filmte  i  daa  taux  da  rMuction  diff*ranta. 
Loraqua  la  documant  aat  trop  grand  pour  Atra 
raproduit  an  un  aaui  ciich*.  11  aat  film*  A  partir 
da  I'angia  aupAriaur  gaucha,  da  gaucha  *  droita, 
at  da  haut  an  baa.  an  pranant  la  nombra 
d'imagaa  n*caaaaira.  Laa  diagrammas  suivants 
illuatrant  la  m*thoda. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

Ltc 


u^ 


TBX 


63,rueS!J0SLPHstlloCH 


MEtEaPQLITlN 

THIRD   RE^i^DER: 

FOR  THE  USE  OF  SCHOOLS. 


Bt  ▲  MSMBKR  OF  THB  ObDIB  OV 


4t9M  jpitmfjiMit  Mnffp^^tiacu^ 


NEW  YORK: 
D.  *  J.  SADLIER  &  00.,   31  BAKCIAY^  ' 

B06TO2r— 198  FlDKBAL-BTBEEt. 

MoinmBAi.— ooKim  kotu  daub  and  n,  feamcu  XfLnmi  iitlk 

1866. 


Lne 


iriiHE 

•*:  wei 

I  and  wi 

adopte 

conyex 

Hav 

,  youth, 

ipublisl 

the  01] 

adapte 

made  i 

and  0 

same  1 

thing  j 

Dr. 

des<aril 

Jiativ 

prasset 

wisht* 

"Ln 

as  che 

fishes, 

nopal 

themJ 


i^   'v 


PREFACE. 


iniHE  First,  Second,  and  Foni^h  books  of  this  serioi 

■^  were  published  some  months  in  adyance  of  this, 

[and  we  rejoice  to  saj  that  they  hare  ahready  been 

adopted  in  a  large  number  of  our  Oatholio  coU^es, 

convents,  and  schools. 

Having  had  some  experience  in  the  education  of 
.youth,  and  haying  examined  most  of  the  Beaders 
I  published,  we  noticed  that,  with  the  single  exception  of 
the  CSiristian  Brothers'  series,  all  the  others  are  better 
adapted  for  pagan  than  Ohristian  schools.  They  are 
made  expressly  for  mixed  schools,  where  Flrotestant 
and  Oatholic,  Jew  anci  pagan,  may  read  out  of  the 
same  book,^  widiont  discovering  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  religion  in  the  world. 

Dr.  Brownso%  in  his  Beview  for  July,  has  so  well 
described  what  Beaders  should  and  s^^ould  not  be^ 
Jiat  we  will  be  pardoned  for  quoting  him,  as  he  ^• 
presses  ht  more  clearly  than  we  can  what  we  would 
wish  to  say: 

**  Instructions  in  natural  history  ox  natural  sdenee; 
as  chemistry,  mineralogy,  geology,  quadrupeds,  blrds^ 
fishes,  or  bugs,  may  be  vecy  interesting,  but  they  fin  m 
no  part  of  education,  and  tend  far  more  to  i|||terti||iiw 
the  mind  than  to  elevate  it  to  God,  and  to  fltoMt'iite 


-Ws. 


■*«.- 


ramrAXJE, 


moral  and  religious  principles,  which  may  one  day 
fmctifjr,  and  form  a  character  of  moral  and  tme  reli- 
gious worth.  A  book  may  contain  much  useftd  in- 
struction on  nouns,  adjectiyes,  verbs,  adyerbs,  par- 
ticiples, and  other  parts  of  speech,  Very  proper  in  a 
grammar-book,  but  quite  out  of  place  in  a  reading* 
bck>k ;  but  all  these  lessons  bdong  to  the  department 
of  special  instruction,  and  either  haye  no  bearing  ob 
education  proper,  or  tend  to  giye  to  education  a  dry, 
utilitarian,  and  materialistic  character.  .  .  .  The 
aim  of  the  reading^book  is  not  instruction,  save  in  the 
single  art  of  reading,  but  education,  the  development 
or  cultiyation  in  the  mind  and  in  the  heart  of  those 
great  principles  which  are  the  basis  of  all  religion.'' 

Wo  have  endeavored  to  ^ake  these  Beaders  as  at- 
tractive in  evPTy  way  as  any  series  published;  while 
from  a  Oatholic  point  of  view,  we  can  oonscientiouBly 
claim  for  them  some  degree  of  merit 

The  s^le  in  which  the  pubHshers  have  got  up  the 
other  books  of  this  series  is  very  creditable  to  tiiem; 
but  in  this  third  book  they  have  suipasfed  themselves, 
it  is  embdlished  with  numeroub  engravings,  many  ot 
them  very  fine,  and  far  superior  to  what  is  generally 
in  s^ool-books. 

1^  OOMPILBB. 


CONTENTS. 


1. 

2. 
3. 
4. 
6. 
6. 
7. 
4. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
18. 
14. 
16. 
16. 
17. 
18. 
19. 
20. 
21. 
22. 
28. 
24. 
26. 
26. 
27. 
28. 
29. 
80. 

n 


PART    I. 
loonom  OR  THa  Fuvowui  01  BaADiadr. 11 

Bftptifm 16 

Th«  Soaile  ot  LmooanGe 18 

KlndWonls 19 

Th«  Brother! 2C 

Beware  of  Iin{Mitience 21 

The  Two  Ways 28 

OooBiel  to  the  Toong 26 

Ob  a  PIctare  of  a  Qirl  leading  her  Blind  Mother  throogh  the 

Woods .Waiu.  26 

The  Honeit  Shefdierd  B07 28 

The  Wonden  of  a  Salt  Mine Toulk'$  O.  iUgiaim.  82 

The  Starrj  HeaTens 88 

CafeleMMM t 86 

OoBipegatloa  of  the  Propagation  of  the  lUth. .  IMb't  0.  Mag.  89 

live  im  Something 42 

Fiedominani  Faadons 48 

"  "       (aMftMMd) 47 

MyBoyAbaalom :tr.  ^.WUk.  b\ 

The  Soholar'a  Yidmi *64 

BrChotonrSaTioar. ...DM^y«<kiiliM.  68 

▲  l^aniihAiieodote 61 

Anecdotee  of  Dogi ifirfMMi  JMsry.  62 

Barial  of  flit  John  Moore Wtiff*.  66 

ITfeytobeOood 66 

The  Qreen  Mo«y  Bank 70 

On «he Baptismal Yowa ....iJM^^rflOSMMian.  71 

TiMtitaoy 78 

The  agn  <tf  the  Cross .74 

The Slume Friends 77 

SonciofthiB&dhroad ....O.  Fl  Jlritoi.  78 

Yic^Mnns 89 

Goaidiaa Angels.. .......,,'«.  i| 


8  OORTBHTS. 

MM  I 

82.  UMlkinirraoUonofUieBody.... BUkBihr^,  84 

88.  AStorjofaMonk 87 j 

84.  Th* Ditotorj Soholar ( 

88.  BpMilihBTniiiigByinii....... Mi 

86.  OhrMitimngthaltoiMit 91 

87.  HoUdayOhUdrai 82 


tm0ity^^m0^^>0^t0*0^i^t0t^0>m0>^0^00tm0t^ 


PA'RT  11.  ^ 

1.  The  Draun  of  the  OraMMl«r 06 

2.  **       ••        «•  "       (Qmimti) 07 

8.  The Loid'e Pmjrer BiUtSMm.    00 

4.  Legend  of  the  Infant  Jfltos 101 

6.  The  Do-Nothingi 102 

6.  Heding  the  Daughter  of  Jalnu »WUUi.  106 

7.  StPhiUpNeri  and  the  Youth Bgnm.  lOB 

8.  OonftrmaMtm 109 

0.  Bird!  In  Sammar 110 

10.  The  Ohlldien  and  the  Xnfimt  Jeeoa 112 

11.  TheQfaTeof  IMberlfarqnette JtkffiXmM^.  117 

12.  Abraham  and  laaao JIMfiftfary.  120 

18.  HohenUnden flwytrfl.  128 

14.  LugnageofFlowen diflmlimla.  124 

16.  Homeward  Bound WUk,  127 

16.  1007*6  Death ^.Oiflmnmtt.  128 

17.  Autobiography  of  a  Boae RMOulkrk.  182 

la  **  "       (OmikHnIi **  186 

10.  Winter 188 

20.  Hm  Snow 141 

21.  yiea  of  Water k 148 

Dying  COiriitlaa  to  hiaBonl Apt,  146 

XL  Flight  into  l^ypt ^.AUiAorte.  146 

28.  TheFreedBlid m9.Hmm$.  148 

24.  Decollation  of  8i  John AMAorte.  160 

26.  Batuiday  Afternoon WOit.  162 

26.  T^eamlng  and  Aooomplialimenie  not  inoonriitent  with  Good 

Housekeeping 164 

27.  Tieaming and Aocomplielmienie {Omtinmi) 166 

28.  Aneodotee  of  the  Tiger ,  JIToAmI  Atory.  168 

20.  The  fountain 168 

SO.  Benedidt  Arnold ^  164 


ooMTsim.  9 

in.  BaMkaKllioeml AUiAorw.  106 

12.  Fkmtn ...* 169 

18.  llMHohokrolUkilioMry 170 

84. •         ••     (Chmmmi) 172 

>86.  TlMlfoiithn(il»]r 176 

86.  The lloDth ofibrr O.  TmA'a  ¥i»— 1»  177 

87.  ThalndlMi 178 

88.  Oluuritj Otrnfiam.  180 

80.  Th«  BverlMtlng  Ohoroh Macmb^.  181 

40.  WeixnnetotlMBhlB* Omtrn.  188 

41.  nieBM-HlTe 186 

42.  llie  OhUd'i  Wish  in  Jane 187 

48.  The  Mnrtyr'i  Boj < CMiNoI  Wimmmt.  188 

44.    "         •*        <•    (OmUmitd) '*  •«       108 

46.  Annn'i  Offering  of  Sunael BAhSUHm.  106 

46.  'llieBojMid  the  Child  Jeiiu Btitr,  100 

47.  llieHolyBaohuiet BUkakHm.  201 

48.  TheHooMofLoretto. KKOvArk.  204 

40.  Bztreme  Unotlon Dul^  ^  •  ChrkHm.  207 

60.  ••  Whirls  that,  Hotherf Daam.  209 

,61.  Ohuity OHgiHti.  210 

62.  Aneodotet of  Honae AmiUmif  AmmA.  211 

68.  The  Bettte  of  Blenheim JStmOuf.  216 

64.  TheAnnnnoietlon... JNbkaMm,  217 

66.  StFeUoitMendherSone Mr*.aft.  220 

66.  Immortnlitj 0.  A,  Jkmmmm.  224 

67.  The  Widow  of  Naln ^.WiOa.  226 

68.  Monument  to  a  Holher's  Onre J,R.CImtt0r.  227 

69.  Adoimticpoi'theBhepheidi JWtAorte.  280 

60.  llie  Angela!  Bell Cmfkti.  282 

61.  The  Adoration  of  the  Magi ....AUi  Aorte.  284 

62.  Iona....r 287 

68.  StOolnmbablealhigthelilee Jftwihy.  280 

114.  The  Obeerving  Jadge 241 

66.    *•  '*  •*     (OmAhmO .^242 

66.  "  «*  *<     (OmmIwM). 244 

67.  Henrj  the  Hermit ANriMr.  246 

68.  Qod  li  Brerywhen 240 

60.  Anecdote  of  Frederick  the  Oreal ^ 260 

70.  ABmallOatedhiim ^^....JfeOtt.  261 

71.  TheFMdigalBon 69iU8U>Hm.  262 

72.  Blanche  of  OtatUe 266 

78.  HaU  Virgin  of  yiigina L^raOdMlm,  266 

74.  Legend  of  Daniel  the  Anchoret Jfra  .fiwpji   269 

76.        «•  ••  (Omikmi) "  261 

76.  Ohndhood'iTean J^rktWkit.  262 

1» 


10  oowrmnm 

77.  Brnkflwl-Tkblc  BotoDM «... 20ft 

78.  •*  ••      (Omlkmd) 268 

79.  M  ••      (ONMfNdM) 272 

88.  TlndofPtoy WUUa.  278 

81.  MelrawAbbqr. Ot^ImI.  279 

82.  OmlaitlMBIbMl i^^CRrM/pr  YMk.  281 

88.  AwntiyVeUoviMdtlMAM Bynm,  288 

81.  llMnniOniMMlc MkHmd.  286 

86.  The  Buttle  of  Antlooh 288 

86.  VUkg«8QliooliiMiter GMmUi.  291 

87.  TlMBMtorofOiiigiMn.. JMtf  Baf/kn.  292 

88.  Th*  Tlurw  HomM 294 

89.  8t.Prtw<Mlv«ndoiitoCPl1ion ToMtaM^mm.  296 

90.  The  Hermit. QoUtmUk.  298 

91.  FbpeLM>tiieOfei^MidAttiU Briifift  MikUm  Bkkrf.  299 

92.  OhUdlModorJeras I^t^CMrM/ar  IMk.  801 

98.  Hie  Butterfly's  Bell,  eta Jbtto*.  802 

94.  TheAioeBrioa .Sibk aiorim.  804 

96.  TheThkiwller OoMmM.  806 

96.  ThellooriahWenlnSpefai 807 

97.  TbeMonkeofOld O.P.R.Jmmm.  809 

96.  TiM Beoied Ftetwee BOtkBlMim.  8U 

99.  Thrth  in  Fteeatheaee Bood.  812 

100.  JqwiMie  Mertyn Or**.  818 

101.  IUnia*n«enie-Boet Baod.  817 

102.  nowen  for  the  Alter (n^'^rm^  820 


1  b»T«  giTen  the  munee  of  lome  anthore;  bat  in  aneogliig  this  Baeder, 
mtf  old«o(  WM  to  Monre  piaoee  miteble  for  oUldivn  who  ware  oommenoing 
to  read  ntber  fluently.  Many  of  them  are  /ittgiUTe.  I  aonght  rather  te 
I  it  pleaaent  and  inatmotiTo,  than  to  oell  fW>m  parttoaler  aathon. 


aof 

268 

278 

...WiUk.  278 
..OHgiMl.  270 
M  raulk.  281 
..Bifrm.  288 
MMmA  286 
•••••••.,  288 

OtUrnHk  2»1 
AiyAy.  298 

294 

igmiM.  296 
GIoUmiM.  298 
IMwy-  299 
ArliMM.  801 
..JbNot.  803 
bUSMm.  804 
GoUmnM.  800 

807 

^Jmm.  809 
UiApriv.  811 
...Bood.  812 
..OmUi.  818 
■  •••xModL  817 ' 
iMflKwH  820 


THE  THn(D  REAH 


^•» 


PART  FIBBT. 

nsTBUonoKis  oir  the  pmciPtES 


All  fhat  artionlate  Uuigntge  can  eflisct  to  inflaenoe  others 
b  dependent  npon  the  Toloe  addnseed  to  the  enr.  A  akil* 
Ad  management  of  it  1^  oMiaeqaentlj,  of  the  hlgheM  import- 
ance. 

Distinct  articulation  formi  the  foudation  of  good  reading. 
To  acquire  thia,  the  roice  ihonld  be  flreqnently  ezerdaed  npon 
the  elniMitaiy  aonndi  of  the  language,  botii  i^ple  and  com- 
bined, and  claisei  of  worchi  containing  lonndB  liable  to  be  per* 
rerted  or  suppreaeed  in  utterance,  ihodd  be  forcibly  and  aeon* 
rately  pronounced. 


rtUsBMKler,        ■ 
>  ooBmenoing       M 

JbLHMXHTABT 

YCOAL  SOUSDB. 

ght  nther  to       ■ 
Mthon.              ■ 

.r           « 

VowdSomdi. 

1 

as  in 

ape. 

0  as  in  old. 

1 

41 

arm. 

0      " 

do. 

1 

tt 

ban. 

0      " 

oz. 

1 

U 

mat 

u      " 

use. 

^         1 

II. 

Vffi,' 

tt     «• 

tub. 

1 

II 

end. 

n      " 

fun. 

1 

1 

n 

ice. 

oi     " 

voice. 

1 

i 

II 

it 

on    " 

sound 

IS 


THE  THIBD  intApKIt- 

Oonxmant  Sountb. 
b'"  as  in  bag.  r  as  in  rain. 


d 

i< 

dnn. 

T 

II 

rane. 

g 

J 
1 

1$ 
it 

u 

gate 
jam. 
lore 

W 

7 

s 

II 
II 
II 

war. 
yes. 
naL 

m 

n 

it 

u 

moaent 
not. 

th 

II 
II 

song, 
there. 

AspmATB  Soinn)B.  \ 

The  aspirate  consonant  is  distinguished  Arom  the  vocal  fa 
Its  emrndation  <  the  former  is  prononnced  with  a  M  emission 
of  breath ;  the  latter,  by  a  mnrmnring  sound  of  the  yoioe. 


Exercigea  in  ihe  Aspirate  Consonants. 


f  as  fa  fate. 

h  as  m  hate. 

k  as  fa  key. 

p  "  m- 

s    "    sign. 

t    "    telL 

ch  "    diann. 

sh  "    shade. 

th  "    thauka. 

Avoid  the  snfqpiresdon  of  a  syllable;  as, 


caVn      for  cabin. 
particHar"  particdar. 


desolate  for  desolate. 


memory  *'  memory. 


Avoid  the  omission  of  any  sound  properly  belongiiig  to  a 
word ;  as, 

for  seeing.  swifly    for  swiftly. 


seefa' 

wa'mer       "  warmer. 

government "  government. 


'appy      "  happy, 
b'isnes^   "  busfaess. 


Avoid  the  substitution  of  one  sound  for  another ;  as, 

wfl-ler     for  wiUow.  tem^r-it       for  tem-per«te 

wifrder     "  wfa<dow.         com-prom-mise "  com-pro-mise. 
separate "  sep«rrate.        hol-ler  "  hollow. 

The  oommon  deftot  in  the  artionliitioB  of  ft^  is  » want  of  foioe  in  eov» 
l^reMinf  (md  opening  thei  qaonth. 


OM  TBB  PBINOIPLBS  OF  SKAUDIO. 


18 


EmPHAHTB  Am)  AOOENT. 

Empluuda  and  Acceqt  both  indicate  some  spedal  stress  of 
the  voice.  Emphasis  is  that  stress  of  the  Toioe  by  whidi  one 
or  more  words  of  a  sentence  are  distingnished  above  the  rest. 
It  is  used  to  derignate  the  important  words  of  a  soitenc^ 
without  any  direct  reference  to  other  words. — ^Example : 

Be  we  menf 
And  suffer  snch  dishonor  7    Men,  and  wash  not 
The  stahi  away  in  Nood/ 

Emphasis  is  also  used  in  contrasting  one  word  or  dans* 
with  another;  as,  ^ 

Beligion  raises  men  lAove  themselves.  Jrrdigion  sinks 
them  beneath  bmtes. 

To  determine  the  emphatic  words  of  a  sentence,  the  rervder 
must  be  governed  wholly  by  the  Sentiment  to  be  expressed. 
The  idea  is  sometimes  entertained,  that  emphasis  is  expressed 
by  loudnees  of  tone.  Bat  it  should  ]be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
most  intense  emphasis  may  often  be  effectively  caressed  even 
by  a  whisper. 

ACKJBNT. 

Accent  Is  that  stress  of  voice  by  which  one  eyUabte  of  a 
word  is  made  more  prominent  than  the  others. 

The  accented  syllable  is  sometimes  designated  thns  (') ;  as, 
in'terdict.  Words  of  more  than  two  syllables  generally  have 
two  or  more  of  them  accented.  The  more  forcible  stress  is 
called  the  primary  accent,  and  the  less  fordble  the  secondary 
accent ;  as,  mni'tipli caption,  com'prehend". 

Kote. — The  change  of  accent  on  the  same  word  often 
dwnges  its  meaning ;  as, 


ob' ject,  ultimate  purpose, 
oon'  duct,  behavior. 


object',  to  oppose 
conduct',  to  kinSL 


H  THE  THIRD  BEADSB. 


Infleotions  OB  Modulations 

ai%  those  yariations  of  the  voice  heard  in  speaking  or  reading, 
which  are  prompted  by  the  feelings  and  emotions  that  the  sab- 
ject  inspires.  A  correct  modulation  of  the  voice  is  one  of  the 
most  important  things  to  be  tanght  to  children.  Without  it 
they  cannot  become  good  readers.  If  the  voice  is  kept  for 
any  length  of  time  in  one  continaons  key  or  pitch,  the  reader 
and  the  hearers  equally  become  weary.  Whenever  a  habit  of 
reading  or  speaking  in  a  nosoZ,  shriU,  harsh,  or  rough  tone 
of  voice  is  contracted  by  the  pupil,  no  pains  should  be>8pared 
in  eradicatii^  it,  and  in  securing  a  clear,  full,  round,  and  flex- 
ible tone.  Three  degrees  of  variations  are  usually  recognized 
in  reading — the  high,  middle,  and  low. 

The  low  is  that  which  falls  below  the  usual  speaking  key, 
and  is  employed  m  expressing  ^notions  of  svMimihf,  atoe,  and 
reverence. 

The  middle  pitch  is  what  is  usually  employed  in  common 
Conversation,  and  in  expressing  unimpassioned  thought,  and 
modenUe  em(^n. 

The  high|>itch  is  that  which  rises  above  the  usual  speaking 
key,  and  L  used  in  expressing  j'oyous  and  elevated  feelings. 

The  great  object  of  every  reader  should  be,  first,  to  read  so 
ap  to  be  faUy  and  easily  understood  by  all  who  hear  hun ;  and 
next,  to  rt^  with  grace  and  force,  so  as  to  please  and  mov«' 
his  hearers." 


BAPTISM. 


16 


1.  Baptism. 


O-Rio'i-NAL,  first,  primitiye. 
Mar'tyb-dom,  death  in  testi- 
mony of  the  true  faith. 


SuF-Fi'ci-BOT,  enough. 
Va-lid'i-tt,  legal  force. 
Reo'is-terkd,  recorded. 


Our  Bavloar  baptised  bjr  Bt  Johiii 

rHE  first  of  the  Sacraments  which  we  receive  is  baptism. 
It  was  instituted  by  onr  Lord  to  free  ns  firom  original  sin, 
and  also  from  actual  sin  committed  before  we  receive  it.  Bap- 
tism makes  as  children  of  God  and  of  his  holy  Church;  and  it 


16 


THB  THIBD  BKAPICB. 


. 


to  the  most  necessary  of  all  the  Sacraments,  because,  onlesi 
we  receiye  it,  we  cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of  heayen. 

2.  There  are  commonly  reckoned  three  kinds  of  baptism: 
first,  by  water;  second,  tiutt  of  the  spirit;  and  third,  of  blood. 
The  first  only  to  properly  a  sacrament,  and  to  admintotered 
by  ponring  water  on  the  head  of  the  person  to  be  baptized, 
repeatkig  at  the  same  time  these  words :  "  I  baptize  thee  in 
the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ohost.»' 

8.  The  baptism  of  the  spirit  takes  place  when  a])6rson  has 
a  tme  sorrow  for  hto  sinS|^and  an  ardent  desire  to  receive- bap> 
tism,  bnt  to  placed  in  drcomstances  wherdn  it  to  impossible  for 
him  to  reoeiTe  the  sacrament.  By  tbto  desire  ordinal  and 
actoal  sin  to  foigiyen.  The  baptism  of  blood  to  that  which 
takes  place  when  a  person  snffars  martyrdom  for  the  faitL 
Hence  the  Hofy  Innocents,  pat  to  death  by  the  order  of 
Herod,  when  that  wicked  Ung  sought  to  kiU  onr  Lord,  are 
esteemed  as  mar^rs,  and  as  hkor;  baptized  in  their  blood. 

4.  At  what  partibnlar  time  during  the, life  of  onr  divine 
Lord  baptism  was  institnted  to  not  exactly  known.  Some 
holy  Fathers  tUnk  it  Was  instituted  when  Ohrist  was  baptized 
by  St  John ;  others,  when  He  said,  nnlesB  a  man  be  bom  of 
water  and  the  Holy  Ghost^  he  cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven.  It  to  certain,  however,  that  the  oUigation  b^gan 
with  the  pronmlgation  of  Gfartotianity. 

6.  Baptism  to  performed  in  three  ways.  Fkst,  by  immer 
don,  that  to,  by  plunging  the  person  under  the  water.  Seo 
ondly,  by  infbsion,  or  pouring  the  water  on  the  person  to  be 
baptized ;  and  tldrdly,  by  aspersion  or  sprinkling.  The  prao* 
tice  now  to,  to  pour  l^e  water  three  times  on  the  person  about 
to  be  baptized,  using  the  words,  "  I  baptize  thte,  &o.,**  which 
we  mentioned  before.  The  pouring  of  the  water  once  is  suffi- 
cient, as  to  the  validity  of  the  sacrament ;  and  it  to  not  abso- ' 
lately  necessary  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  while  pouring 
the  water,  though  it  to  usually  done. 

6.  The  ceremonies  made  use  of  in  admhustering  the  sacra- 
ment of  baptism  are  impressive  and  instructive.  The  ppiiest 
breathes  upon  the  infant  or  other  person  to  be  bi^tized,  to 


BAPTISM. 


H 


rignify  splritaal  life.  It  is  used  also  to  drive  away  the  devil, 
by  the  Holy  Ghost,  who  is  called  the  Spirit  of  God.  The 
person  is  signed  with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  to  signify  that  he 
is  made  a  soldier  of  Ghrist.  Salt  is  pat  into  his  mouth,  which 
i  is  an  emblem  of  pmdenGe,and  signifies  that  grace  is  given  to 
I  preserve  the  sonl  incorrupt. 

V.  The  priest  ai^lies  spittle  to  the  person's  ears  and  nostrils, 
'  in  imitation  of  Christ,  who  used  that  ceremony  in  curing  the 
deaf  and  dumb.  The  anomting  the  head  denotes  the  dignity 
of  Christianity ;  the  anointing  the  shoulders,  that  he  may  be 
strengthened  to  carry  his  cross ;  the  breast,  that  his  heart 
may  concur  willingly  in  all  the  duties  of  a  Christian;  the 
white  garment  in  whidi  the  person  is  dothed  signifies  inno- 
cence ;  and  the  lighted  candle  the  light  of  faith  with  which  he 
is  endowed. 

8.  When  children  are  baptized,  they  have  also  a  godfather 
and  godmother,  whose  duty  it  is  to  instruct  the  child  in  the 
duties  of  its  reIi{^on,  in  case  of  the  death  or  neglect  of 
parents  to  do  it.  The  office  of  godfather  or  godmother  is  an 
important  one,  and  should  not  be  undertaken  without  due  con- 
sideration  of  its  responsilHlities. 

0.  At  baptism,  tibe  devil  and  all  his  works  are  solenmly  re* 
nounced;  a  {Nromise  is  re^^stered  on  the  altar  to  bear  the 
white  robe  of  innocence  without  stain  of  dn  before  the  throne 
of  God.    Children,  have  you  kept  this  promise  ?  \ 


18 


THK  THIRD  KIADER. 


2.  The  Smilb  of  Innookmob. 

Tran'sibnt,  passing,  fleeting.    MB'nM>R,  a  laminons,  tfan- 
Ma'ni-ao,  a  madman.  sient  bodj,  floating  iu  the 


Pen'sive,  thouglitfal. 
Plao'id,  qniet. 
En-rol',  to  register. 


atmosphere. 
Im'no-oence,    freedom    from 
gnilt. 


1.  rpHERE  is  a  smile  of  bitter  scorn, 

X  Which  cnrip  the  lip,  which  lights  the  eye ; 
There  is  a  emile  in  beanty^s  mom 
Just  rising  o'er  the  midnight  sky.  i 

J   S.  Thereisasmileofyonthfnljoy, 

Wl^eM^opS's  blight  star's  the  transient  gnest ; 
ThereW     ' 


le  of  i^aoid  age, 
Like  snnie^ton  the  billow's  breast 

8.  There  is  a  smile,  the  maniac's  sm3e, 

Which  lights  the  void  which  reason  leaveiy 
And,  like  the  snnshinie  throngfa  a  clond, 
Throws  shadows  o'er  the  song  she  wearee. 


XUID  WOADB. 


18 


4.  There  Is  a  smile  of  love,  of  hope, 

Which  shines  a  meteor  through  life's  gloom ; 
And  there's  a  smile,  Religion's  smile, 
Which  lights  the  weary  to  the  tomb. 

6.  It  is  the  smile  of  innocence, 

Of  sleeping  infancy's  light  dream ; , 
Like  lightning  on  a  snmmer's  eye, 
It  sheds  a  soft,  a  pensive  gleam. 

6.  It  dances  round  the  dimpled  cheek, 

And  tells  of  happiness  within ; 
:^  Xt  smiles  what  it  can  never  speak — 

A  human  heart  devoid  of  shi. 


8.  £iND  Words. 

Mbn'tal,  relating  to  the  mbd.  I  Wbath'fdl,  Airious,  nfpaag. 
Mo-bo8k',  sour  of  temper.        I  Dib^a-obib'a-blb,  offensive. 


Do  not  aay  ttimPl  for  nuntd  ;  'eomptiih  or  tioeofiiplii&  for  aoooiiij)IM  ; 
mIn  for  fMolM ;  perduee  kttpnAm.  -.^ 


rpHBY  never  blister  the  tongne  or  Mpe.  And  we  have 
A  never  heard  of  one  mental  trouble  ailili^  flrom  litlH  quarter 
Thonc^  they  do  not  cost  much,  yet  they  aocoaiplish  nrooh. 


90 


THB  THOKD  BSADRR. 


They  help  one's  own  good-natnre  and  good>wiII.  Soft  words 
■often  onr  own  sonls.  Angry  words  are  fuel  to  the  flame  of 
wrath,  and  make  the  blaze  more  fierce. 

2.  Kind  words  make  other  people  good4iatnred.  Cold 
words  Areeze  people,  and  hot  words  make  them  hot,  and  bitter 
words  make  them  bitter,  and  wrathftd  words  make  them 
wrathfol.  There  is  snch  a  rash  of  all  other  kinds  of  words  in 
onr  days,  that  it  seems  disagreeable  to  giro  kind  words  a 
ohanoe  among  them.  j 

8.  There  are  vain  words,  and  idle  words,  and  hasty  words, 
spiteful  words,  and  empty  words,  and  profane  words,  and  wor^ 
like  words.  Kind  words  also  produce  their  own  image  in 
man's  soul.    And  a  bcAutiftd  image  it  is. 

4.  They  soothe,  i^  quiet,  and  comfort  the  hearer.  They 
shame  him  out  of  his  sour,  morose,  unkind  feeUngs.  If  we 
have  not  yet  b^n  to  use  kind  woids  in  abundance  as  th(>y 
ought  to  be  used,  we  should  resolve  to  do  so  immediately. 

K 


4.  The  Bbotobbs. 


Sa'obkd,  holy. 


XJMyrBouB'uu),  not  troubled. 


Sound  d  oorreotly.  Do  not  ny  $aenid  for  aueni;  wan  for 
a  singing  tone  in  reading  poetry. 


fNTfc    Avoid 


L  TTTIBi  ABB  BUT  TWO — ^tho  othttrs  sfoep 
Tf  Through  death's  untroubled  night : 
We  axe  but  two>— oh,  let  va  keq> 
The  link  that  bfaids  m  bright. 


S.  Heart  leaps  to  heart— thie  sacred  flood 
That  warms  us  is  the  same; 
That  good  <rtd  man— ^  honest  blood 
Alike  we ficmc^claim. 


BEWARB  OF  IMPATIBNOB. 


fli 


We  in  one  mother's  anns  were  lock'd- 

Long  be  her  lore  repaid ; 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  rock'd, 

Round  the  Muane  hearth  we  T^fd, 


4.  Onr  boyidi  sports  were  all  the  sune. 
Each  little  joy  and  woe : 
Let  manhood  keep  aliye  the  flame, 
Lit  np  BO  long  ago. 

6.  Wk  abi  bot  two— be  that  the  band 
To  hold  ns  till  we  die ; 
Bhonlder  to  shoulder  let  ns  stand, 
TQl  side  by  ride  we  lie.. 


5.  Bbwabb  ov  IiiPATiBifraB. 


Db-xj'oxoub,  excellent  to  the 

taste. 
Mm'BHRT,  wretchedness ;  woe. 
Abz'ious,   wi^   trouble    ^ 

TM-M>Kr'AN0B,  conaeqaence. 


Ad-tibbb',  to  have  given  ad 

yice. 
PLuiraBD,  thmst  !n. 
Bb-wabb',  to  take  care. 
Poi'scN,  what  is  ncttions  to  life 

or  health. 


THS  THIRD  SRADBB. 


THERFS  many  a  pleasure  in  life  wliich  we  might  possess, 
were  it  not  for  our  impatiencd.  Yoong  peoj^e,  especially, 
miss  a  great  deal  of  hi^^^ness,  because  tliey  cannot  wait  iSl 
the  proper  time. 

2.  A  man  onice  gave  a  fine  pear  to  hia  Uttle  boy,  saying  to 
him,  "/The  pear  is  green  now,  my  boy,  bat  lay  it  by  for  a  week, 
and  it  will  then  be  ripe,  and  reiy  deUcions.''        4f 

"  Bat,"  said  the  child,  "  I  want  to  eat  it  now,  father." 

"  I  tell  yon  it  Js^ot  ripe  yet,"  said  the  father.  "  It  wfll 
not  taste  good  y  and,  besides,  it  will  make  yoa  sick."  /-- 

S.  "  No,  it  won%  father;  I  know  it  won't,  it  looks  so  good. 
Do  let  me  eat  it  IJK 

AftA  a  little  4aore  teasing,  the  father  consented,  and  the 
child  eat  the  pear.  The  conseqaence  was,  that  the  next  day 
he  was  taken  sick,  and  came  very  near  dying.  Now,  all  Uub 
happened  becaase  the  child  was  impatient..  J 

4.  He  conld  not  wait,  and,  acoor^ngly.  Hue  pear,  thaljgiigfat 
have  been  veiy  pleasant  and  harmless,  was  the  occanon  of 
seT««  illness.  Thns  it  it  tiiat  impatience,  in  a  thonsand  in* 
•taaoei^  leads  oU^Fen,  and  pretty  dd  (mes  too,  to  oonvert 
sources  of  hapinnoss  into  adtnal  misddef  and  misery. 

5.  Thcure  were  sol|»  boyt  once,  who  lived  near  a  pond ;  and 
when  winter  eamO|  t|py  were  nxj  anxious  te  have  it  fiwesse 
a^fekt  so  that  theji  dnld  dide  and  skate  npon  the  ice.  At 
last,  there  came  4  veryeqld  night,  and  in  the  morning  th* 


nOB  TWO  WATa.  IP 

lyi  went  to  the  pond  to  see  if  the  tee  would  bear  then, 
leir  father  came  by  at  that  moment,  and  leeing  that  it  wai 
Ij  thick  enongli,  told  tie  boya  that  it  was  not  safe  yet, 
Id  adrised  them  to  wait  poother  day  beflfe  they  yentured 
)n  it./  »  u.'«''->  ].■  1  ' 

6.  Bat  the  boyt  were  in  a  great  hury  t^  ,ei({6y!thepleasare 
sliding  and  skatiqg.-  Sorthey  wa^Mdi  <^  npiottiie  iee ;  bat 
Btty  soon  it  w«it  craek-H9rack---'«raeht  and'  down  they 

^ore  all  plunged  into  the  water!  It  was  not  rery  deep,  so 
ieygot  out,  though  they  were  very  ^et,  and  came  near  drown- 
;  and  all  because  they  could  not'irait. 

7.  Now  these  things,  though  they  may  seem  to  be  trifles, 
^re  full  of  instraction.  They  teach  us  to  beware  of  impatience, 

wait  till  the  fruit  is  ripe ;  they  teach  ja  that  the  cup  of 
[pleasure,  seised  before  the  proper  time,  is  turned  into  poison. 
By  show  us  the  importance  of  patience. 


6.  Thb  two  Ways. 


Rhine,  the  prindpal  riyer 

in  Qermany. 
OoN'scneircK,    internal*  or 

self  knowledge. 
Galh'kkss,  quietness. 
MouBNBD,  sorrowed. 


lUyEN,  a  species  of  black 
bird. 

Rust'uko,  slight  noise. 

Mis'k-rt,  wretchedness. 

Pab'a-blk,  a  fable;  a  simili- 
tude. 


IN  a  yillage  on  the  Bhke,  a  schoolmaster  was  one  day 
teaching  in  his  school,  and  the  sons  and  daught^s  of  the 
lyillagers  sat  around  listening  with  jdeasure,  for  his  toachinfl^ 
I  was  fhll  of  interest.  He  was  speaking  of  the  good  and 
(bad  cousdence,  and  of  the  still  yoice  of  the  heart. . 

2.  After  he  had  finished  speaking,  he  asked  his  pupils : 
l«  Who  among  you  b  able  to  tell  me  a  parable  on  this  mat* 
Iter  7"  One  of  the  boys  stood  forth  and  said,  "  I  thhdi  I  can 
jteU  aTMffable,  but  I  do  not  know  whether  it  be  right.''  ' 

"  Speak  in  your  own  words,"  answered  the  nuMltar.  And 
[the  boy  began:  "I  compare  the  calmness  of^-good  exm 


TBI  TUIBD  SKADKB. 


science  and  the  dUiqaletude  of  an  otH  one,  to  two  waTi  on 
which  I  walked  once. 

8.  "  When  the  enemy  paiied  through  oar  rfflage,  ''>  t "  Id*  rn 
carried  off  by  force  my  dear  father  and  our  bor  m.  Vt^hb<i  uiy 
father  did  not  come  bacic,  my  mother  and  all  c''  a*)  vept  aod 
mourned  bitterly,  and  she  sent  me  t'  >  the  to\m  to  inquire  for 
my  father.  I  went ;  bat  late  at  night  .  came  back  sorrow< 
fully,  for  I  had  not  foand  my  futher.  It  wm  a  da^'k  night  io 
autumn. 

4.  "  The  wind  roared  and  howled  in  the  oaks  and  fin,  and 
between  the  rocks ;  the  night-rayens  and  owb  were  shrieking 
and  hooting ;  and  I  thought  in  my  soul  bow  we  had  lost  my 
father,  and  of  the  misery  of  my  mother  when  she  should  see 
me  return  alone.  A  strauge  trembling  sdnd  me  in  the  dreary 
iu>bt,  and  each  rnstUng  leaf  terrified  me.  Then  I  thought  to 
myself, — such  must  be  the  feeUngs  of  a  man's  heart  who  has 
a  bad  conscience." 

6  "  My  children,''  said  the  master,  "would  you  like  to  walk 
in  the  darkness  of  night,  seeking  in  vain  for  your  dear  father, 
and  hearing  naught  but  the  roar  of  the  storm,  and  the  screams 
of  the  beasts  of  prey  V 

6.  "  Oh !  no,"  exclafaned  all  the  chQdren,  shuddering. 

Then  the  boy  resumed  his  tale  and  said,  "Another  time  I 
went  the  same  way  with  my  sister ;  we  had  been  fetching 
many  nice  things  from  town  for  a  feast,  which  our  father  was 
recretly  preparing  tor  oai^  mother,  to  surprise  bor.the  next 
day. 

1  *'  It  was  late  wUea  we  returned ;  but  it  was  In  spring ; 
the  sky  was  bright  and  clear,  and  aU  was  so  calm,  that  we 
could  bear  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  rivulet  by  the  way,  and 
on  all  sides  tilie  nightingales  were  singing.  I  was  widkii^ 
hand  in  hand  with  my  sister ;  but  we  were  so  delighted  that 
we  hardly  liked  to  speak ;  then  our  good  fkther  came  to  meet 
is.  Now  I  thought  again  by  myself, — such  must  be  the  alMlf 
of  the  man  who  has  done  much  good." 

8.  When  the  boy  had  finished  bis  tale,  the  master  looked 
kindly  at  the  children,  ard  they  said  nnanimonsly,  "  Yes,  we 
will  become  good  men  1" 


OOUNBiCL  TO  TUK  YuUNO. 


7.  ConsrsBL  to  thb  Vouno. 


V7iB,  net-work. 
Trou'bli,  care. 
OHKRB'ruL,  pleasant. 
IIas'tT)  impetnooB ;  with 

eagemeBB. 
Mourn,  to  grieye. 


Bub'bli,  a  Bmall  bladder  of 

water. 
TBi'rLB,  a  1  latter  of  no  im 

portanoe. 
Re-vbkob',    rbtnming    trll 

for  efU 


[EVER  be  cast  down  bj  trifleB.    If  a  spider  breaks  his 

web  twenty  times,  twenty  times  will  he  mend  it.    Make 

ip  yonr  minds  to  do  a  thing,  and  you  will  do  it.    Fear  not  if 

trouble  comes  npon  yon ;  keep  up  your  spirits,  though  the 

ly  may  be  a  dark  one — 


V. 


^  TroublM  never  last  forever. 
"^   The  darkest  day  will  peH  away. 


S.  If  the  sun  is  going  down,  look  up  to  the  stars ;  if  the 
artb  ia  dark,  k«ep  yonr  eyes  on  heaven.  With  God's  pns- 
Biioe  and  God's  promise,  a  man  or  child  may  be  oheerAil. 

Kever  despair  when  fog's  la  the  air. 
A  sviuhiny  morning  will  come  without  warning. 
8 


TUB  THIBD  BEADBR. 


8.  Mind  what  yon  ran  after  I  Never  be  content  with  a 
babble  that  will  borst ;  or  a  fire  that  will  end  in  smoke  and 
darknesR  :  bat  that  which  yon  can  keep,  and  which  is  worth 
keeping. 

Something  startling  that  will  stay, 
When  gold  and  silver  fly  away. 

4.  Fight  hard  against  a  hasty  temper.    Anger  will  come, 
nt  resist  it  strongly.    A  spark  may  set  a  honse  on  fire.    A 

fit  of  passion  may  give  yon  canse  to  moam  all  the  days  of 
your  life.    Never  revenge  an  ii^ary. 

He  that  revengcth  knows  no  rest ; 
The  meek  possess  a  peaceful  breast 

5.  If  yon  have  an  enemy,  act  kmdly  to  hun,  and  make  him 
yoor  friend.  Yon  may  not  win  him  over  at  once,  bat  try 
again.  Let  one  kindness  be  followed  by  another  till  yon  have 
compassed  yoor  end.  By  little  and  little  great  things  are 
completed. 

Water  fiillin|r  day  by  day, 
Wears  the  hardest  rock  away. 

And  80  repeated  kindness  will  soften  a  heart  of  stone. 


8.  On  a  Pioturb  of  a  Gibl  leadino  heb  Buin) 

MOTHBB  THBOnOH  THB  WoOD. 

1.      rriHE  green  leaves  as  we  pass 

-L  Lay  their  light  fingers  on  thee  unaware, 
And  by  thy  side  the  hazels  closter  fair, 

And  the  low  forest-grass 
Grows  green  and  silken  where  the  wood-paths  wind- 
Alas  t  for  thee,  sweet  mother  I  thou  art  blmd ! 


2.      And  natare  is  all  bright ; 

And  the  faint  gray  and  crimson  of  the  dawn, 
Like  folded  curtains  from  the  day  are  drawn ; 
And  eveni^^s  parple  light 


cojtentwlth  a 

in  smoke  and 

rfaich  is  worth 


GIRL  LEADING   HER  BLIND   MOTHER. 

Quivers  in  tremulous  softness  on  the  sky — 
Alas  I  sweet  mother  I  for  thy  clonded  eye. 


37 


^  .^ 


^i4>/ 


3.      The  moon's  new  silver  shell 

Trembles  above  thee,  and  the  stars  float  up, 
In  the  blue  air,  and  the  rich  tulip's  cup 

Is  pencil'd  passing  well, 
And  the  swift  birds  on  glorious  pinions  flee — 
Alas  1  sweet  mother  1  that  thou  canst  not  see  1 


4.      And  the  kmd  looks  of  friends 
Peruse  the  sad  expression  in  thy  face, 
And  the  child  stops  amid  his  bounding  race. 
And  the  tall  stripling  bends 


28 


THB  THIRD  BEADSB. 


Low  to  thine  ear  with  duty  nnforgot — 

Alas!  sweet  mother  1  that  thou  seest  them  not  1 

6.      Bat  thon  canst  hear!  and  love 
"  May  richly  on  a  hnman  tone  be  ponr'd, 
And  the  least  cadence  of  a  whisper'd  n^ord 

A  daughter's  love  may  prove — 
And  while  I  speak  thoa  knowest  if  I  smile, 
Albeit  thoa  canst  not  see  my  face  the  while  I 

6.      Yes,  thoa  canst  liear  I  and  He 

Who  on  thy  sightless  eye  its  darkness  hong, 
To  the  attentive  ear,  like  harps,  hath  stnu^ 

Heaven  and  earth  and  sea  I 
And  His  a  lesson  in  oar  hearts  to  know — 
WUh  hvi  one  sense  the  sotd  may  overflow. 


9.  Tbb  Honest  Shephbbd  Boy. 


Shxp'hbrd,  one  who  has  the 

care  of  sheep. 
Fru'oal,  saving  of  expenses. 
Crook,  bold,  a  shepherd's  staff. 
GArr,  manner  of  walking. 


Des-ti-na'tion,  place   to   be] 
reached. 

De-pict'ed,  portrayed. 

Ca-pac'i-tt,  the  power  of  re- 
ceiving and  containing. 


! 


I  AM  going  to  tell  yoa  something  which  happened  in  Eng- ! 
land.  It  is  about  a  shepherd  boy,  named  John  Borrow. 
It  was  a  cold,  wmtry  morning  when  John  left  his  home,  as 
osual,  to  tend  the  sheep  of  farmer  Jones.  In  one  hand  John 
carried  his  fhigal  meal,  and  in  the  other  he  held  a  shepherd's 
crook.  He  walked  briskly  along,  whistling  as  he  went — now 
tossing  with  his  feet  the  still  untrodden  snow,  and  then,  occa- 
sionally, running  back  to  slide  where  his  own  feet  had  made  a 
way.  Had  you  looked  into  the  bright,  sunny  face  of  John 
Borrow,  you  would  not  have  been  surprised  at  his  cheevful 


THE  HONEST  BHBPHEBD  fiOT.  SW 

lit.  -  ]^is  countenance  bore  the  impress  of  a  happy  disposi- 
)n,  and  a  warm,  confiding  heart. 

2.  John  had  been  carefolly  brought  up  by  his  only  surviv* 
\g  parent — a  poor  mother ;  he  was  her  only  Ron,  and  though 
^e  had  many  little  daughters  to  share  her  maternal  care,  still 
^e  seemed  to  think  that  her  first-bom,  the  one  who  was  to 

the  stay  and  support  of  the  family,  needed  the  most  of  her 
Mchful  loYe. 

3.  Hitherto  John  had  not  disappomted  her— he  was  beloved 
ly  all  for  \d$  open,  firank  manners,  and  his  generous,  honest 
leart;  and  he  promised  fair  to  become  all  that  his  mother 
lad  so  earnestly  prayed  he  might  be. 


N,  place   to   be 


4.  But  while  I  have  been  telling  you  a  little  about  our  young 
triend,  he,  in  spite  of  his  playing  a  little  by  the  way,  has  reach- 
\A  his  destination.  He  first  deposits  his  dumer  in  the  trunk 
|)f  an  old  oak,  which  always  serves  him  for  a  closet ;  and  then 
lie  begins  to  feed  the  poor  sheep,  who  do  not  seem  to  enjoy 

lie  cold  weather  so  much  as  himself. 

5.  John  manages  to  spend  a  very  happy  day  alone  in  the 
leadows  with  his  sheep  and  his  dog.  Sometimes  he  tries  how 
Pepper  likes  snow-balling ;  sometimes  he  runs  up  to  the  wind- 
lill,  not  far  off,  to  see  if  he  can  get  any  other  little  boys  to 
lome  and  play  with  him.  This  morning,  however,  he  had  a 
jittle  more  business  to  do  than  usual ;  he  had  to  take  the  sheep 

another  fold,  where  they  would  be  more  sheltered  from  the 


80 


THE  THIBD  READEB. 


irind.    And  just  as  he  is  in  the  act  of  driving  them  throaglii 
the  large  field-gate,  he  sees  farmer  Jones  coming  towards  him.i 

6.  "John/'  exclaimed  the  farmer,  as  he  came  up  to  the  other] 
side  of  the  gate,  "have  you  seen  my  pocket-book  about  any- 
where?   I  was  ronnd  here  about  half  an  hour  ago,  and  must  I 
hfiye  dropped  it." 

"No,  sir;  I  have  not  seen  any  thing  of  it,  but  I'll  look] 
about,  if  you  like." 

7.  "  That's  a  man,  John.  Be  quick,  for  it's  got  money  in 
it,  and  I  don't  at  all  wish  to  lose  it.  We  will  hunt  together." 

Whereupon  they  both  separated,  one  gomg  one  way,  and 
the  other  another,  with  their  eyes  on  the  ground,  searching  for 
the  missing  treasure. 

Presently  John  heard  Mr.  Jones  calling  him  in  a  loud  voice ! 
from  the  other  side  of  the  field. 

8.  John,  thinking  the  book  was  found,  came  running  with 
great  alacrity ;  but,  as  he  drew  near  the  old  ock  where  farmer 
Jones  stood,  he  was  taken  somewhat  aback  to  see  the  look  of ! 
anger  depicted  on  his  master's  face ;  and  still  more  was  he  | 
surprised  when  he  saw  the  missing  book  lying  open  by  the 
side  of  his  own  dmner,  and  Mr.  Jones  pointing  to  it. 

"Well,  8u>,  what  does  this  mean?"  ezdumed  the  indignant 
farmer.  "  I  thought  yon  told  me  you  did  not  know  where  it 
was  ?" 

9.  John,  whose  amazement  at  the  strange  circumstance  was 
very  great,  and  who-'e  sense  of  honor  was  no  less  so,  felt  the 
color  mount  to  his  cheeks,  as  he  replied : 

"  Yes,  sir,  and  I  spoke  the  truth."  ' 

"  Then,  how  do  yon  account  for  my  finding  it  open  in  the 

trunk  of  an  oak,  close  to  your  dinner  ?" 
"  That  I  cannot  say ;  this,  only,  I  knt>w :  that  I  did  not 

put  it  there." 

10.  But  Mr.  Jones  would  not  be  convinced — ^the  fact  seem* 
ed  to  bun  so  clear  and  so  self-evident ;  for  John  acknowledged 
he  had  not  seen  any  one  else  about  there  this  morning ;  so, 
after  severely  reprimanding  the  poor  boy,  he  dismissed  him  on 
the  spot  from  his  employment. 

1 1.  It  is  easier  to  imagine  than  to  describe  the  feelings  of  poor 


THB  H0NB8T  SHEPHERD  BOT. 


91 


it,  but  ru  look 


m  in  a  load  voice : 


John,  as  he  slowly  found  his  way  home  that  evenbg.    To  be 

fepriTed  of  the  means  of  assisting  his  dear  mother  was  bad 

lough ;  but  to  be  suspected  of  lying  and  stealing,  was,  to 

iple,  honest  John,  ahnost  too  hard  to  bear.    He  consoled 

Limself,  however,  with  the  thought — "Mother  will  believe 


ft 


le; 

12.  Yes,  and  his  mother  did  believe  hun,  and  told  him  no 
feel  angry  with  fanner  Jones,  for  appearances  were  certain 
against  him,  and  he  did  not  know  hii^  as  well  as  she  did. 

p Besides,"  she  added,  "truth  must  come  out  some  time  or 
)ther.» 
And  so  it  did,  though  it  was  months  afterwards ;  and  I 
tell  yon  how. 

13.  John  had  long  been  seeking  another  situation,  but  no 
)ne  would  take  him,  on  account  of  the  aj^parent  blot  on  his 
character.  This  cost  John  many  a  tear  and  many  a  sigh,  but 
lie  trusted  that  God  would  right  him,  and  he  was  not  discour- 
iged. 

14.  One  day  he  went  to  see  a  gentleman  who  had  inquired 
jTor  a  lad  to  work  in  his  garden.  As  us>!«l,  John  told  his  stoiy 
lust  as  it  was,  and  his  face  brightened  as  the  gentleman  sud, 
"  Then  that  must  have  been  your  dog  I  saw  with  a  book  hi 

mouth.  I  was  riding  through  the  field  you  mention,  one 
lay,  some  months  dnce,  and  I  saw  a  dog  with  a  book  in  his 
lonth,  run  and  put  his  head  in  the  trunk  of  an  old  oak." 

15.  John  clapped  his  hands^for  joy,  ezclainung : "  I  knew  the 
truth  would  come  out.    Then  Pepper — ^poor  Yeppet  I  it  was 

kindness  to  me  that  caused  all  the  trouble ;  he  thought  it 
ras  mine,  and  he  took  it  to  where  I  always  keep  my  dmner, 
ad  then,  I  suppose,  in  dropping  it  into  the  hole.  It  came 
jpen." 

16.  John  lost  no  time  in  acquainting  farmer  Jones  witk 
these  droumstances,  who  was  very  sorry  for  his  suspicions, 

id  wanted  to  take  him  back ;  but  John,  who  saw  some  chance 
)f  promotion  in  the  gentleman's  garden,  declined  the  favor. 

It.  John  remained  some  time  with  his  new  master  as  gBO- 
len>boy,  but  he  became  so  great  a  favorite,  both  among  the 
Ifamily  and  servants^  that  he  was  afterwards  taken  ipto  the 


32 


THK  THIRD   KhiADEB* 


house,  where  he  remained  in  the  capacity  of  confidential  swi 
yant  to  his  kind  master,  until  his  death.  He  never  married—] 
in  order  that  he  might  be  better  able  to  support  lus  widow*  i ! 
mother  and  his  four  sisters. 

See,  my  dear  children,  how  true  it  is  that  all  things  wop 
together  for  good  to  those  who  love  God. 


10.  Thb  Wonders  of  a  Sal' 


Mink,  a  pit  from  which  min- 
erals are  dug. 

Oa'blb,  a  large,  strong  rope. 

Mi'neb,  one  who  works  in  a 
mine. 

Oat'ebn,  an  opening  under 
ground. 


Vault,  a  connhned  arch,  a] 

cellar. 
I'ci-CLBS,  ft  hanging  mass  of| 

ice. 
lN-HAB'n)>ANT,  a  pcrsou  who] 

resides  in  a  place. 
Com'pobbd,  formed. 


rf  a  country  of  Eurqm  called  Poland,  there  is  the  largest! 
salt  mine  in  the  world.    It  is  quite  a  little  town,  into 
which  there  are  eight  openings,  six  in  the  fields,  and  two  in  a 
Ufim  called  Oracow,  near  which  thd  mine  is  situated.    At  the 
top  of  each  of  these  openings  is  a  large  wheel  with  a  cable,  by 
which  persons  are  let  down,  and  sometimeiB  as  many  as  forty 
persons  descend  together.    They  are  carried  slowly  down  a 
narrow,  dark  well,  to  the  depth  of  600  feet,  and  as  soon  as ! 
the  first  person  touches  the  ground,  he  steps  fiK)m  the  rope, , 
and  the  rest  do  the  same  in  turn. 

2.  The  place  where  they  land  is  quite  dark,  but  the  miners  i 
strike  a  light,  by  means  of  which  strangers  are  led  through  a 
number  of  whiding  ways,  all  slo^^ng  lower  and  lower,  tiU  they  | 
come  to  some  ladders,  by  which  they  descend  again  to  an  im« 
mense  depth. 

8.  At  the  bottom  of  the  ladders  the  visitors  enter  a  small,  I 
dark  cavern,  i^parently  walled  up  on  all  sides.    The  guide 
now  puts  out  his  lamp  as  if  by  accident,  and  catching  the  yja- 
\tm  i^  tiie  hand,  dn^  him  through  a  narrow  cleft  into  the 


TUB  STABRT   HEAVENS. 


88 


at  all  thingg  wo^ 


)dy  of  tho  mine,  where  there  bursts  npon  his  sight  a  view, 
ie  brightness  and  beanty  of  which  is  scarcely  to  be  imagined* 

4.  It  is  a  spacious  plain,  containing  a  little  world  under- 
round,  with  horses,  carriages,  and  roads,  exhibiting  all  the 
istle  of  bushiess.  This  town  is  wholly  cut  out  of  one  vast 
ed  of  salt,  and  the  space  is  filled  with  lofty  arched  vaults, 
ipported'by  piUars  of  salt,  so  that  the  building  seems  com- 
)8ed  of  the  purest  crystals. 

5.  Lights  are  continually  burning,  and  the  blaze  of  them 
eflecting  from  every  part  of  the  mine,  gives  a  more  splendid 

;ht  than  any  human  works  above  ground  coidd  exhibit.  The 
lit  is,  in  some  places,  tinged  with  all  the  colors  of  predons 
[tones,  blue,  yellow,  purple,  red,  and  green ;  and  there  are  en« 
I  columns  wholly  composed  of  brilliant  masses  of  such  colors. 

6.  From  the  roofs  of  the  arches,  in  many  parts,  the  salt 
|iangs  in  the  form  of  icicles,  exhibiting  all  the  colors  of  the 

imbow.  • 

In  various  parts  of  this  spacious  plain  stand  the  huts  of  the 
liners  and  thehr  families,  some  single,  and  others  in  clusters 
re  villages.  The  inhabitants  have  very  little,  communication 
ith  the  world  above  ground,  and  many  hundreds  are  bom 
id  end  their  lives  there. 

t.  A  stiream  of  fresh  water  runs  through  the  mine,  so  that 
the  inhabitants  have  no  occasion  for  a  supply  fh)m  above  :  and 
Vbovo  all,  the  Almighty  Creator  of  all  these  wonders  is  not 
Forgotten ;  they  have  hollowed  out  a  beautiful  chapel,  in  whicli 
phe  Adorable  Sacrifice  is  offered ;  the  altar,  crucifix,  ornaments 
of  the  chapel,  with  statues  of  our  Blessed  Lady  and  several 
lints,  are  all  of  the  same  beautiful  material. 


11.  The  Stabby  Heavens. 


^ir'ua-ment,  the  heavens. 
i^Ro-CLADi',  announce. 
?LAN'rr,  a  celestial  body  re- 
volving about  the  sun. 
U'oi-ANT,  bright. 


Ter-bes'tsi-al,  relating  to  the 

earth. 
Bea'son,    the    faculty     of 

judging. 
Qlo'ri-ous,  ilhistrious. 


«» 


84 


TUB  TIIIBD   KEADKlt. 


m 


1.  rpHE  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
X  With  all  the  bine,  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame. 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

2.  Th'  nnwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day. 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land, 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

3.  Soon  as  the  evening  shades. prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 


OAUULUSSMESa. 


8ft 


And  nightly  to  the  listenbg  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  bhrth  ; 

4   While  all  the  stars  that  round  her  bom, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  tnm, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

5.  What  thongh  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  ronnd  this  dark,  terrestrial  ball, — 
What  thongh  no  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 

6.  In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 

"  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine.'' 


12.  Gabelessness. 


^ual'i-tt,  an  attribute. 
[iOven'u-ness,     untidiness ; 
carelessness. 
riELo'iNG,  giving  up. 


Frao'ment,  a  small  portion. 
A-void'ed,  shnnned. 
Sur-prise',  wonder  suddenly 
excited. 


'ARY  BELL  was  a  little  girl  who,  thongh  she  had 

many  good  qualities.  Was  also,  like  most  persons,  pos- 

pssed  of  some  very  bad  one4^    Oi}e  of  her  worst  faults 

[as  her  negligence  and  carelessness,  which  showed  itself  in 

my  matters,  and  especially  in  her  dress. 

2.  She  was  affectionate,  kind-hearted,  and  good-natured ; 

[ways  ready  to  assist  others,  even  when  by  so  doing  she 

)d  in  the  way  of  her  own  pleasure.  But,  alas  I  her  sloven- 

ness. 

"  Like  a  cloud  beforo  the  gkiei,  '' 

Hid  all  her  better  qiwliUua." 


36 


THE  THIRD   RRADEB. 


8.  This  trait  in  Mary's  character  gave  her  mother  a 
deal  of  trouble.    She  did  not  want  her  little  girl  to  be  vaiiil 
of  dress,  which  is  very  foolish  as  well  as  wicked,  but  8h(| 
wished  to  see  her  neat  and  carefnl.    Mary  sometimes  suffered] 
mnch  inconvenience  f^om  her  carelessness.    She  would  often, 
when  preparing  for  a  walk  or  ride,  waste  half  an  hour  in  look- 
ing for  a  missing  glove  or  ctocking,  and  when  found,  the'arMcli 
was  generally  so  much  out  of  repair,  as  hardly  to  be  wcn^ 
with  decency.  t 

4.  But  she  had  got  the  habit  of  throwing  her  tidngs  aboad 
and  letting  them  go  nnmended,  and  it  seemed  impossible  tol 
break  her  of  it.  So  true  it  is  that  children  should  be  veijl 
careful  how  they  form  habits  that  may  cling  to  them  throughj 
life,  and,  if  bad,  cause  them  much  trouble. 

5.  About  half  a  mile  from  Mrs.  Bell's  there  lived  a  verjl 
nice  old  T7omaru  who  had  formerly  been  a  housekeeper  in  thej 
family,  and  who  was  very  fond  indeed  of  little  Mary.  Mary,} 
in  return,  loved  Mrs.  Brown,  as  the  old  woman  was  called,! 
and  was  always  delighted  to  be  the  bearer  of  the  little  delicar] 
cies  which  her  mother  often  sent  to  her. 

6.  One  Saturday  momhig  Mrs.  Bell  called  Mary  to  her,! 
and  told  her  that  as  she  had  been  a  good  girl,  and  learned  all] 
her  tasks  that  week  very  well,  she  might  go  over  and  spend] 
the  day  with  Mrs.  Brown,  adding,  that  when  she  was  dressed,! 
she  would  find  a  pitcher  of  broth  on  the  dudng-table,  whicli| 
she  wished  her  to  take  with  her.  Mary  was  delighted  witbl 
the  permission,  and  ran  up-stairs  as  fast  as  possible  to  get! 
ready. 

t.  As  usual,  half  the  articles  she  wanted  to  wear  were  miss-l 
faig,  and  no  two  in  the  sauB  place,  so  that  a  long  time  wail 
consumed  in  looking  for  them.  One  of  her  shoes  was  in  heil 
bedroom,  but  where  the  other  had  gone  was  a  mystery  whicli| 
no  one  in  the  house  could  solve.  The  servants  were  callcdl 
from  their  work  to  know  if  they  had  seen  it,  but  none  of  theiii| 
knew  any  thing  about  it.  * 

8.  After  wasting  a  long  time  in  this  way,  Mary  happenedl 
to  recollect  that  the  night  before  she  had  pilled  it  ofT,  on  a&l 
count  of  its  hurting  her,  and  tlirown  it  under  the  parlor  lounge,! 


OAKRLK88ME88. 


87 


(here  it  was  foand.    The  string  was  out ,  bat  being  by  this 

le  in  a  great  harry,  Mary  concluded  it  would  stay  on  with* 

it  one,  and  put  it  on  as  it  was.    In  changing  her  dress,  she 

)ticed  a  snudl  rent  in  the  skirt,  which  her  mother  had  told 

ir  of  some  days  before,  but  which  she  had  forgotten  to  mend. ' 

9.  "  Never  mind,"  thought  she,  "  it  will  not  be  noticed,  and 
can  sew  it  up  when  I  come  home."  One  gloye  was  in  her 
)cket,  and  the  other,  after  some  search,  she  found  in  her  ret- 

Bule.    These  required  mending  also,  but  were  thrust  on  with- 

kt  it.    The  string  of  her  bonnet  was  ripped  off,  and  being  in 

}o  much  haste  to  fasten  it  properly,  she  merely  stuck  a  pin 

it,  hoping  that  this  would  answer  the  purpose.    Being  at 

ist  ready,  Mary  took  the  pitcher,  which  was  a  very  handsome 

|>ne,  and  started  on  her  journey. 

10.  It  wa:>  a  lovely  day,  and  she  went  on  for  some  distance 
|n  high  glee,  notwithstanc^g  her  shoe  kept  slipping  up  and 
lown  in  a  most  uncomfortable  manner.  She  was  thinking. 
Iiow  much  pleased  Mrs.  Frown  would  be  to  see  her,  and  get 
the  nice  broth,  when,  in  crossing  a  stile,  the  comer  of  one  of 
the  steps  caught  in  the  rent  in  her  dress,  and  tore  a  hole  in 
pe  thin  lawn  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  yard  wide. 

11.  Poor  Mary  could  have  cried  heartily  at  seeing  her  pret- 
|;y  frock  spoiled,  but  remembering  that  crying  would  not  rc- 
sair  the  injury,  she  forced  back  her  tears,  and  pinned  it  up  as 
rell  as  she  could.  After  hav&g  done  this,  she  took  up  her 
pitcher  and  went  on,  though  not  quite  so  gayly  as  before,  for 
Bhe  was  afraid  of  receiving  a  scol^g  from  her  mother ;  and 
she  felt  that  she  deserved  one  for  not  having  mended  her 
Iress,  as  she  was  told  to  do. 

12.  Her  troubles  had  hardly  ^gun ;  for  she  had  not  gone 
luch  farther  when  the  pin  came  out  of  her  bonnet-string,  and 

gast  of  wind  carried  away  her  bonnet,  and  sent  it  flying 
icross  the  field.  Mary  sat  down  her  pitcher  and  ran  after  it 
fast  as  she  could ;  but  every  time  she  got  near  to  it, 
[another  puff  of  wind  would  take  it  far  out  of  her  reach,  until 
iat  last  it  was  blown  into  a  sort  of  marshy  place  at  the  bottom 
lof  the  field. 

13.  In  her  efforts  to  regain  it,  her  foot  sank  deep  into  tha 


88 


TIIK  TUIBO  BJfiADKJC 


loft,  yielding  earth,  and  when  she  got  it  oat,  the  shoe  whielk 
had  no  string  to  Iceop  it  on  was  left  behind.    Poor  BCary  wai  ] 
almost  heart>broken  at  the  loss  of  her  shoe ;  and  her  bonnet— . 
which  was  floating  in  a  mnd-puddle — was  a  mere  mass  of  wet ' 
ribbons  and  dirty  straw.    She  stood  crying  for  some  thno, 
when  happening  to  remen*  oer  the  pitcher  which  she  had  left  at 
the  end  of  the  field,  she  started  to  look  for  it. 

14.  The  stones  and  sticks  were  so  painfbl  to  her  nnprotect* 
ed  foot,  that  she  was  abnost  lame  before  she  reached  the  spot,  ^ 
Here,  alas  t  another  ndsfortone  awaited  her.  A  dog  happen-  ^ 
big  to  come  along  during  her  absence  hcd  smelled  the  soup, 
and  endeayored  to  get  it.  In  so  doing  he  had  knocked  the  i 
pitcher  over  against  a  stone,  and  there  it  lay,  broken  hi  a  j 
dozen  pieces.    This  was  too  much  for  Mary. 

16.  She  sat  down  on  the  ground  by  the  fragments,  and ' 
'  cried  as  though  her  little  heart  would  break.    Poor  child  I 
she  was  hi  a  sad  dilemma  indeed.    She  could  not  go  to  Mrs.  i 
Brown's  hi  this  plight — without  her  bonnet,  with  but  one| 
shoe,  her  hair  tangled  and  matted,  and  her  frock  soiled  and 
torn ;  and  she  was  afraid,  if  she  went  home,  her  mother  would ' 
be  oflbnded  at  the  results  of  her  carelessness.    She  thought 
how  easily  all  this  could  have  been  avoided  by  a  little  care 
and  a  few  stitches. 

16.  She  was  still  sitthig  sobbhig,  when -she  heard  a  voice 
behind  her  exclaun  m  a  tone  of  surprise,  "  Mary,  is  it  possi- 
ble 1  Why,  what  can  yon  be  doing  here  V*  Mary  turned, 
and  saw  through  her  tears  her  father's  face  looking  khidly 
but  wonderingly  upon  her.  As  well  as  her  sobs  would  per- 
mit, she  told  Urn  the  events  of  the  mondng  exactly  as  they 
had  occurred. 

17.  "  Well,  Mary,"  said  her  father,  when  she  had  finished, 
*'I  am  sorry  to  see  yon  in  so  much  trouble  ;  but  your  mother 
has  often  warned  yon  of  the  effects  which  must  result  from 
your  extreme  carelessness ;  but  dry  your  eyes  now,  and  come 
home  with  me ;  this  is  no  place  for  you."  "  Oh  !  papa,  how 
can  1 7  Ma  will  be  so  angry  with  me  for  losmg  my  bonnet 
and  shoe,  and  breaking  her  pitcher." 

18.  "  Never  mind,  my  poor  child  ;  come  with  me,  and  I  do 


PBOPAOATIOll  OV  TUB  PAFrH. 


80 


thiuk  yoar  mother  will  poniih  yon,  if  ihe  leei  how  sony 

are  for  your  carelessness  ;  come  1" 

[ra.  Bell  was  surprised  at  Mary's  appearance  ;  bat  when 

heard  her  story,  and  saw  how  distressed  she  really  was, 

did  not  scold  her,  bnt  merely  told  her  she  hoped  her  mom- 

f 8  adventares  would  teach  her  to  be  more  oarefal  in  fatnre. 

L9.  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  tell  my  little  readers,  that 

ry  has  learned  wisdom  by  experience,  and  is  now  all  that 

parents  can  desire. 


1.  OoNOBEOATION  GW  THE  PbOPAQATIOK  OF  THB  FaiTH. 


-pRBm',  highest  and  great- 

lest. 

^'oAN,  a  heathen,  an  idola- 
ter. 
-per-in-tknd'bnck,    act   of 

loverseehig. 


iN-sTi-Tu'noK,  system  estab* 

lished. 
Ap-pro'pri-at-ed,  applied  to 

some  pnrpose. 
Ses'sion,  stated  meetbg  of  a 

public  body. 


th  me,  and  I  do 


'OW  many  have  heard  of  the  Gongregation  for  the  Prop 
agation  of  the  Eaith,  and  of  the  famous  College  of  the 
janda,  at  Rome  f  but  how  few,  even  among  Catholics, 
^ow  any  thing  about  the  history  of  the  Gongregation,  or  the 
ject  of  the  College  1  We  propose,  in  the  following  pages, 
i  give  our  young  readers  a  short  account  of  the  origin  of  the 
i>Dgregation,  and  the  designs  for  which  the  College  was  in- 
Itnted. 

[2.  The  Pope,  the  successor  of  St.  Peter,  is  the  supremo 
)ntiff  or  chief  bishop  of  the  Catholic  world.    He  is  the 

innel  through  which  the  missionary  receiireB  his  commission 

carry  the  light  of  the  gospel  to  pagan  nations.  To  send 
brgymen  to  the  remotest  puts  of  the  <rrth ;  to  direct,  snp- 
krt,  and  assist  them  in  theur'  apostolic  labors,  is  one  of  the 
^iof  objects  of  the  pastoral  solicitude  of  the  Bishop  of  B«me. 

this,  however,  he  is  assisted  by  the  Sacred  College  of  Car> 
Inals ;  and  to  a  portion  of  their  number,  called  the  Sacred 


40 


TUB  TUIKD  KEADEB. 


then! 


Congregation  de  Propaganda  Fide,  is  committed  the  snperi 
tendence  of  the  Catholic  missions. 

8.  This  body  owes  its  or^  to  Pope  Gregory  the  Fifteeni 
who,  in  the  year  1622,  formed  the  institution  and  supplied 
with  the  necessary  fnnds  for  its  support.  His  successor,  Uii 
ban  the  Eighth,  in  a  special  manner  favored  the  institutioi 
and  appropriated  a  large  sum  of  money  for  its  success. 

4.  In  view  of  the  great  advantages  derived  from  it, 
sources  of  the  institution  were  greatly  increased  by  privati' 
donations.    By  these  means,  the  palace  in  whi0h  the  Couj 
gation  holds  its  sessions,  was  erected. 

5.  The  body  intrusted  with  the  management  of  the  institi 
tion  consists  of  eighteen  cardinals,  and  a  large  number  of  coi 
suitors,  selected  from  among  the  prelates  and  different  religioi 
orders.  The  chief  officers  are  the  Prefect,  the  Prefect 
Economy,  and  the  Secretary.  They  hold  frequent  meetini 
for  the  transaction  of  business,  and  the  result  of  their  delil 
ations  are  transmitted  to  the  Holy  Father  for  his  approvi 
In  the  archives  are  preserved  all  original  letters  and  the 
swers  returned ;  all  decrees  and  resolution,  apostolic  rescripi 
briefs,  &c. 

6.  The  printing  establishment  connected  with  the  institutioi 
is,  without  exception,  the  most  valuable  in  the  world,  in  thi 
variety  of  its  types  and  the  foreign  languages  :l^  which  il 
publications  are  issued.  # 

7.  It  is  furnished  with  types,  or  characters,  of  forty-eigll 
different  languages,  by  means  of  which  the  Holy  Scriptures' 
works  of  instruction,  and  other  books,  may  be  printed  in  thai 
number  of  languages.  This  greatly  facilitates  the  missioui 
in  the  labor  of  spreading  the  truth  of  the  gospel  among  fore! 
nations. 

8.  But  the  most  important  department  of  tiia  institution  iil 
the  College  of  the  Propaganda,  as  it  is  usually  called.  Thu 
famous  literary  establishment  was  founded  by  Pope  Urban  the 
Eighth,  in  the  year  162t,  and  may  justly  be  considered  as  thej 
seminary  of  the  universal  Church.  The  design  of  this  institu 
tion  is  to  educate  for  the  priesthood  young  men  from  all  tbe 
nations  of  the  earth. 


PROPAGATION  OF  THE  FAITH. 


41 


Here  may  be  found  Chinese,  Greeks,  Arabians,  Ethio- 
is,  Syrians,  Bolgarians,  Turks,  Italians,  French,  English, 
Bh,  Scotch,  Americans,  Dutch,  Germans,  Flemish,  Spaniards, 
frtuguese,  Poles,  Bnssians,  with  the  inhabitants  of  various 
ier  portions  of  the  globe-^representing,  in  all,  between  forty 

fifty  tribes  and  nations  of  the  earth. 

[10.  These  are  taught  gratuitously  all  the  branches  of  sacred 

Id  profane  learning,  and  thus  prepared,  when  raised  to  the 

fly  order  of  priesthood,  to  enter  upon  the  duties  of  their 

ssion  in  their  native  countries,  or  to  bear  the  light  of  Chris- 

ity  to  pagan  nations. 

11.  Each  year,  within  the  octave  of  the  Epiphany,  it  is 
lual  for  the  students  of  the  College  of  the  Propaganda  to 
flebrate  the  festival  by  a  solemn  academical  exhibition.    A 

itin  prose  composition  is  first  read,  and  this  is  followed  by  a 
splay  of  poetical  talent  in  the  various  languages.    In  1841 
lie  poetical  and  oratorical  compositions  delivered  on  the  occa- 
>n,  were  in  forty-four  differenj^anguages. 

12.  In  this  diversity  of  languages  are  beautifully  typified 
le  catholicity  and  the  unity  of  the  Catholic  Church.    Com- 

ssioned  to  teach  all  nations,  she  trains  her  ministers  and 
Missionaries  for  every  clime  and  every  condition  of  life.    They 
into  all  countries  to  discharge  their  sacred  and  benevolent 
ice. 

13.  No  dissunilarity  of  language  or  custom  can  arrest  their 
egress.    By  means  of  the  College  of  the  Propaganda,  they 

enabled  to  speak  to  the  various  tribes  of  the  earth  in  their 
itive  tongue,  and  in  this  manner  are  more  effectually  spread 
)ng  them  the  divine  truths  of  the  Gospel. 


A2 


THB  THIRD  READEB. 


14.  LlVB  FOB  SOMETHINO. 


Eic-PLOT'MENT,  occupatioii. 
Selp'ish,  regarding  one's  own 

interest  solely. 
Op-pressed',  burdened. 


Stu'pa-tht,  compassion,  fc^ 

low-feeling. 
Wka'bt,  fatigued. 
Foun'tain,  a  jet  of  water. 


1.  T  lYE  for  something ;  be  not  idlo; — 
Xi  Look  about  thee  for  employ ; 
Sit  not  down  to  useless  dreaming — 

Labor  is  the  sweetest  joy/ 
Folded  hands  are  ever  weaiy, 

Selfish  hearts  are  never  gay, 
Life  for  thee  hath  many  duties —    - 

Active  be,  then,  while  you,  may.  ^ 

8.  Scatter  blessings  in  thj  pathway  I 

Gentle  words  and  cheering  smiles 
Better  are  than  gold  and  silver, 

"With  their  grief-dispelling  wiles. 
As  the  pleasant  sunshine  falleth   • 

Ever  on  the  gratefhl  earth, 
So  let  sympathy  and  kindness 

Ohulden  well  the  darken'd  hearth. 


PBEDOmMANT  PAEN3I0NS. 


48 


8.  Hearts  there  are  oppress'd  and  weary ; 

Drop  the  tear  of  sympathy, 
Whisper  words  of  hope  and  comfort, 

Give  and  thy  reward  shall  be — 
Joy  onto  thy  soul  returning 

From  this  perfect  fountain-head ; 
Freely,  as  thou  freely  givest, 

Shall  the  grateful  light  be  shed. 


15.  Pbbdohinant  Passiovb. 


3bn'den-ct,  superior  influ- 

ace. 

sebn'i-blb^  evident. 

^PEN'si-rr,  Inclination,  ten? 

ency. 


HAuaH'n-NXBS,  an  overbearing 

manner. 
DicKtnsT'iNe,  exciting  dislike, 

odious,  hateful. 
€on'tbiift,  act  of  despising. 


is  not  usual,  that  in  young  persons,  whose  characters  have 

liot  taken  any  settled  form,  any  vice  should  have  gamed  so 

led  an  ascendency,  as  to  enable  themsdvee  or  others  to 

em  clearly  the  nature  of  their  predominant  passion.   Gen- 

^y  speaking,  they  should  be  more  anxious  to  correct  all 

faults,  than  to  find  out  the  chief  among  them ;  as  that 

^ot  discernible  until  they  are  placed  amid  the  busy  scenes 

tie  world. 

Still,  as  they  cannot  be  made  acquainted  too  early  with 
|evil  consequences  of  vice,  it  would  be  advisable  for  them 
their  dispositions  occanonally  lest  any  evil  propen- 
may  take  root  in  their  hearts,  thereby  become  the  princi- 
{of  their  actions,  and  frustrate  the  ends  proposed  in  Chris- 
education. 

The  predominant  passion  of  most  persons  is  Pride,  which 
fails  to  produce  not  only  thoughts  of  pride  and  vanity, 
also  such  haughtiness  of  manner  and  selfHSufficiency,  as  to 
l«r  them  absolutely  disgusting  and  ridiculous. 
Incessantly  endeavoring  to  attract  admiration,  and  bo* 


*=S#?(^k... 


\, 


44 


THB  TUIKD  BBADKB. 


come  the  sole  object  of  attention,  they  spare  no  pains  to  oil 
others,  to  set  themselves  off,  and  by  their  conceited  airs,  tl| 
forwardness,  their  confidence  in  their  own  opinion,  and  neg 
or  contempt  of  that  timid,  gentle,  retiring  manner,  so  ai 
'  and  attractive,  particularly  in  youth,  they  defeat  their 
purpose,  and  become  as  contemptible  as  they  aun  at  being  | 
contrary. 

5.  Many  are  so  little  sensible  of  the  awfiil  duties  imf 
oy  Christian  charity,  as  to  be  ever  ready  to  blame,  criticj 
and  condemn  all  who  come  under  their  observation, 
one  of  the  most  dangerous  propensities,  as  the  occasional 
manifesting  it  occur  incessantly,  and  frequently  lead  to 
tal  sin.    The  persons  thus  uncharitably  disposed,  talk  conl| 
ually  of  the  faults  of  others,  which  they  are  always  incli 
to  exaggerate,  though  often  those  defects  exist  only  in 
detractor's  emblti^cred  imagination,  which  represents  othenl 
so  unfavorable  a  pomt  of  view,  as  to  subject  their  actions  [ 
the  most  unkind  censure. 

6.  To  this  may  be  added  a  satirical  propensity,  which 
icises  and  turns  every  thing  and  every  person  into  ridid 
sparing  neither  superiors,  friends,  enemies,  nor  even  the  mil 
sacred  characters,  such  as  clergymen.  This  disposition  nei| 
fails  to  make  numerous  enemies;  and,  though  occasioi 
encouraged  by  laughter  and  smiles  of  approbation,  it  nev 
theless  is  generally  as  hated  as  it  is  hateful. 

7.  Those  whose  temper  is  violent  and  unrestrained, 
be  ignorant  that  anger  is  their  predominant  passion — ^tl 
frequent,  unreasonable,  and  impetuous  sallies  of  anger,  on  • 
slightest  occasions,  render  intercourse  with  them  as  unsafe  I 
it  would  be  with  a  maniac.  Such  dreadful  and  melanchd 
consequences  have  followed  from  even  one  fit  of  passion,  as  | 
render  any  family  truly  unhappy,  who  may  possess  a  memb 
with  a  violent  temper. 

8.  Those  who  feel  inclined  to  this  passion,  should,  wh 
young,  use  all  their  efforts  to  overcome  so  dangerous  a  < 
position.    Reason,  affection  for  their  family,  consideration  f^ 
all  those  with  whom  they  may  be  connected,  and,  above 
religion,  furnish  powerful  motives  and  means  for  reducmg  i 


PREDOMINANT  PASSIONS. 


45 


f,  however  violent,  to  the  standard  of  Christian  meek* 

The  chief  among  thoss  means  is  prayer,  and  the  next, 

,ps  most  efflcacions,  is  absolute  sUePce  under  all  emotions 

ger.  ^ 

There  are  many  other  persons  who,  though  they  do  not 

among  the  passionate,  are  nevertheless  the  pests  of  so- 

\, — ^particularly  of  domestic  society.    Their  predominant 

Ion  is  a  certain  iH-humor,  fre^iUneaa,  peevishneaa,  and 

JlaMity,  which  pervades  their  words,  manners,  and  even 

and  it  is  usually  brought  into  action  by  such  mere  tri> 

I  as  liBave  no  chance  of  peace  to  those  who  live  in  the  house 

them. 

Childron  and  servants  are  not  the  only  butts  of  their 

Bn ;  but  even  their  best  friends,  their  superiors  themselves, 

[not  always  secure  from  their  ill-tempered  sallies  and  their 

ssont  complaints.    In  a  word,  their  sourness,  their  cBssat- 

1,  discontented  manner,  effectually  embitters  every  society, 

throws  a  gloom  over  the  most  innocent  amusements.    As 

luckless  disposition  is  peculiarly  that  of  women,  young 

|ions  cannot  be  too  earnestly  recommended  to  combat  in 

th  any  tendency  thereto,  lest  they  become,  when  older,  the 

itest  torment  of  that  society  they  are  certainly  intended 

[>less  and  ornament. 

|1.  Sloth,  which  is  the  predominant  passion  of  many  per< 

B,  is  also  one  of  those  vices  most  difficult  to  correct.    It 

rs  itself  by  habitual  indolence,  and  such  negligence  and 

[thy,  that  1*0  duty,  however  serious,  can  rouse  a  person  of 

character  to  exertion.   Days,  weeks,  and  even  years,  pass 

'Without  any  account  of  how  they  have  passed ;  for  though 

muolent  form  many  projects  of  amendment,  yet  those 

^ects  are  never  executed,  because  procrastination  is  the 

;hter  of  sloth. 

L2.  Any  time  but  the  present  appears  calculated  for  the 
jsharge  of  duty,  precisely  because  the  most  heroic  efforts  in 
Ispect  cost  less  than  a  single  actual  exertion.  Thence  it 
>ws,  that  spiritual  duties  are  so  long  neglected  and  defer* 
that  the  torpor,  which  in  youth  could  easily  have  been 
^ken  off,  gains  such  an  ascendency  as  to.become  almost  un< 


16 


THE  THIBD  BEAOEE. 


oonqnerable,  and  at  longth  reduces  the  soul  to  that  dread 
state  generally  called  tepidity,  which  is  only  another  word| 
sloth  in  spiritual  matins. 

18.  Then  it  is  tha^^^ety  social  and  personal  daty  is  ab 
doned ;  children,  servants,  aflkirs,  spuritnal  and  temporal,  or 
cleanlmess,  every  thing  is  neglected,  and  permitted  to  run  u| 
snch  disotuer  and  confusion,  as  to  render  the  persons  de^ 
by  this  vice,  no  less  a  disgrace  to  themselyes  than  to  tli| 
friends  and  to  society.  In  a  word,  there  is  no  passion  iktU 
leads  more  certainly  to  misery  hereafter ;  for,  after  all,  the  I 
anhnate  victim  of  sloth,  who  has  lived  without  energy,  withi 
sentiment,  abnost  without  a  soul,  will  at  last  be  effectnaf 
roused  by  death,  whose  approach  is  terrible  indeed  to  thij 
who  lead  a  useless,  inactive,  idle,  and  consequently  most  t 
ful  life. 

14.  Those  whose  predominant  passion  is  deceit,  are 
quently  not  considered  dangerous  characters,  until  they  hij 
given  many  persons  cause  to  repent  having  had  any  mtercou 
with  them.  Their  manners  are  generally  as  insmuatmg  as  tlif 
motives  are  base  and  interested.   They  are  usually  dist 
ed  by  a  total  disregard  for  truth ;  a  base  system  of  appeaiil 
to  coincide  with  every  one,  the  better  to  gain  thas  confidej 
which  they  only  intend  to  abuse ;  deceitful  expressions — et| 
nal  manoeuvring— equivocations — and  so  great  an  oppositi 
to  candor  and  plain  dealing,  as  to  adopt  jft  thousand  nnderhaj 
means  for  carrying  on  their  most  simple  and  ordinary  trail 
tions,  thereby  ragagmg  themselves  and  others  in  tk  l^b} 
of  dincnlties,  and  spendhig  their  whole  lives  in  perplszli 
entanglement,  and  chance.  \    . 

15.  Independently  of  religion,  the  natural  desire  we  all 
for  happhiess  and  security,  should  be  motives  enough  for  i 
efforts  to  counteract  every  tendency  to  this  mean  vice. 
jHTOves  in  general,  sooner  or  later,  its  own  punishment ;  f| 
itotwithstanding  the  deep-laid  schemes,  the  cunbing  and 
fices  .of  those  who  seem  to  Uve  for  the  purpose  of  deceit 
their  felloWMSreatnres,  yet  the  depravity  and  meanness  of  tb 
motives  hi  all  theur  actions,  are  seen  through  much  clearer  i 
more  frequently  than  they  are  aware.  Besides,  one  lie  or  1 


PBEOOMINAMl  TASSIONS. 


47 


reqnires  many  more  to  prop  its  crazy  saperstmcture,  and 
brent  these  their  mind  most  be  incessantly  on  the  rack ; 
[as  their  craft  is  generally  discoyered,  they  are  exposed  to 
contempt  and  distmst  as  deprive  them  of  all  credit. 
I.  Even  when  by  chance  they  intend  to  deal  fairly  and 
ly,  they  are  carefully  shunned,  because  a  long  habit  of 
inlation  has  so  indelibly  stamped  their  character  with  the 
of  iosincerity  and  knavery,  as  t'^  render  truth  and  false- 
eqnally  disbelieved  from  their  lips.    In  a  word,  they  are ' 
riably,  in  the  close  of  life,  so  hated,  despised,  and  distrust* 
to  become  outcasts  in  society,  a  burden  to  themselves, 
{almost  as  degraded  and  unhappy,  even  in  thij  life,  as  they 
.76  to  >»e. 


16.  Fbsdominanx  Passions — continued. 

Be-puo'nanok,  feeling  of  dislike. 
Ob'sta-olx,  that  whfch  hinders. 


,m-^ 


cai^tal  fault  of  some  persons  is  inordhate,  ungovenu 

^le  ouriosiiy,  a  vice  which  is  a  certun  road  to  many  rins, 

Dhurly  in  youth.    It  should,  howev  sr,  be  observed,  that 

I  are  two  kinds  of  curiosity,  one  allowable,  and  even  com* 

Etble,  the  other  dangerous  and  sinful    They  may  be  eaai^ 


48 


THK  THIUD    KKADKR. 


distinguished,  one  from  the  other,  by  their  different  elTec 
That  species  of  cariosity  which  is  innocent  and  deshrable,! 
pecially  in  yoong  persons,  consists  in  a  laudable  desure  of 
fnl  information ;  this  thirst  after  knowledge,  when  well  re| 
lated,  produces  emulation,  application  to  study,  patience  i 
perseverance  in  difficulties,  good  employment  of  time,  an^ 
love  for  the  society  and  conversation  of  the  learned. 

2.  The  vice  of  curiosit;,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  bane  I 
ttSdful  acqmreraeut,  because  it  consists  chiefly  m  an  eager  ( 
sire  to  hear  and  see  every  insignificant  trifle  that  passes,  i 
gives  persons  so  much  to  do  with  the  concerns  of  c  I/hers,  as| 
leave  them  no  time  to  attend  to  their  own.  Curious  per 
are  always  on  the  look-out  for  what  is  termed  news ;  and| 
that  levity  and  shallowness  of  mind  which  produces  misg 
curiosity,  creates  also  a  <aste  for  unnecessary  talk,  they  i 
never  so  well  satisfied  as  when  they  have  discovered  a  nnmlj 
of  incidents  to  circulate  among  their  frient^  and  acquaintaoj 

3.  Their  inquisitive  air, — their  prying  and  intrusive 
ners, — ^their  incessant  questions, — their  eager  impatience  to| 
informed  of  every  incident  that  takes  place,  and  minute  mqv 
into  the  affairs  of.  others,  would  lead  to  the  idea  that  tlj 
were  commissioned  to  investigate  the  origin,  ancestors,  nan 
tempers,  fortunes,  and  faults  of  every  individual  who  falls  | 
their  way.    Even  the  secrets  of  families,  which  curiosity  iti 
should  respect,  are  not  too  impenetrable  for  the  inquisitive,! 
are  the  most  insignificant  domestic  occurrences  below  tb 
notice. 

4.  On  the  contrary,  to  gun  such  information,  they  do 
hesitate  descending  so  low  as  to  ques^on  children  and  sd 
ants ;  thereby  givii^  occasion  to  innumerable  crimes 
charity,  often  i^ainst  truth.  Another  propensity  of  curitj 
persons  is  a  desire  to  hear  and  see  precisely  those  things  wb 
they  have  been  told  were  dangerous,  and  to  read  every  i 
of  publication  which  they  have  been  recommended  to  avd 
or  know  to  be  exceptionable.  This  contemptible  dispont^ 
can  only  be  rectified  by  many  years'  strict  attention  to 
short  rule  of  never  interfering  in  what  does  not  concern  j 
cxcepi  when  charity  or  duty  dictates  the  contrary. 


rKKIX>MIMANT    PASSIONS. 


49 


There  are  few  persons,  even  among  the  best  Christians, 

bare  not  had  occasionally  to  regret  offending  with  the 

jue;  bnt  the  faalis  committed  and  mischiefs  occasioned 

those  whose  nnbridled  passion  for  talk  is  their  predom- 

it  failing,  can  scarcely  be  estunated.    This  propensity  gen- 

)y  characterizes  persons  of  weak  heads,  vacant  minds,  and 

low  understandings,  who  seem  absolutely  incapable  of  one 

int's  serious  reflection,  and  know  not  what  it  is  to  think 

minutes,  even  before  they  undertake  to  decide  upon  un- 

int  matters.  Those  who  talk  always,  cannot  hope  always 

dk  sense,  consequently  their  least  material  faults  are  ab 

random  opinions,  giddy,  inconsistent  expressions,  and 
|uent  faults  against  politeness  and  good-breeding ;  for  the 
ability  of  great  talkers  never  allows  others  to  deliver  an 
^ion,  or  finish  any  sentence  without  helping  them  out. 

Their  laughable  and  disgusting  egotism,  perpetual  rela* 
^s  of  their  own  unimportant  adventures,  ideas,  or  opinions, 
:h  they  are  too  frivolous  to  perceive  are  interesting  only 
|heir  own  eyes ;  then:  system  of  laughing,  whispering,  and 
Buling,  generally  mark  out  great  talkers  as  persons  of  little 
ko  intellect,  though  they  often  do  not  want  sense,  if  they 
bd  bnt  prevail  on  themselves  to  be  silent,  and  reflect  ever 
fttle  on  the  necessity  of  making  use  of  that  gift.        ^ 

But  those,  however,  are  the  least  serious  faults  produced 
kzcessive  love  of  talk.  Sins  agamst  charity,  breaches  of 
Menj^,  dibcovery  of  the  secrets  of  others,  indiscreet  com- 
Scation  of  their  own  afbirs  and  those  of  their  families  to 

untances,  strangers,  even  to  servants;  remarks  on  the 
Bts  of  others,  breachei  of  truth,  habitual  exaggeration, 

of  time,  dissipation  and  levity,  are  all  the  infallible  con- 

ences  of  a  passion  for  talking ;  besides  the  dreadful  evils 
|h  unguarded  repetition  of  stories  has  be«)n  known  to  pro- 

m  society,  by  disuidting  the  members  of  families,  Irntar 
[  and  disgusting  friends,  breecUng  disturbances,  Ae. :  ev^It 
are  much  easier  occasioned  than  removed. 

Could  those  useless  beings,  whose  occnpati<m 
the  mischief  they  may  occasion,  even  hf 
ih  often  escapes  their  tongue  and  merooiQrlill 


60 


THE  THIRD    RKADKiU 


time,  how  bitterly  woald  they  regret  the  dearly  bought  pie 
are  of  talking  1  how  carefally  would  they  study  the  virtue 
silence  and  prudent  restraint  I  and  thus  spare  themselves  tlj 
regret  of  having  unfeelingly  published  faults  too  true  to  I 
contradicted,  and  stories  too  mischievous  in  their  effects  to  I 
easily  remedied ;  thus  inflicting  wounds  they  cannot  afterwan 
heal. 

9.  There  are  some  persons  who  possess  many  amiable  quo| 
ties,  yet  destroy  the  effect  of  them  all  by  one  predomina 
failing,  a  fund  of  caprice  and  inconstancy.  Those  peno^ 
rarely  succeed  in  gaining  one  sbcere  friend ;  on  the  contraii 
they  seldom  fail  to  disgust  those  whom  they  had  at  fiij 
attracted,  because  they  frequently  receive  with  marked  reser 
one  day,  those  whom  they  treated  with  kindness  the  day  befo  | 
On  one  occasion  these  changeable  bemgs  will  scarce  alloi 
others  to  join  in  a  conversation — the  next,  they  ^  not  byj 
single  word  manifest  a  desire  to  please. 

10.  Their  projects  or  undertakings  are  as  variable  as  thi| 
ideas,  and  are  never  pursued  with  such  steadiness  as  woq 
encourage  any  rational  person  to  join  in  them ;  nor  cu^  it  evj 
be  co1\jectured,  flrom  the  projects  of  one  day  or  hour,  wh 
those  of  the  next  may  be.  They  eagerly  seek  one  moment  aftj 
those  objects  which  the  next  they  desinse ;  and  ara  one  da 
dissolved  in  vain  joy,  another  oppressed  with  melancholy.  BJ 
what  is  infinitely  worse  than  all  is,  that  this  hrrational  cap 
ciousness,  besides  rendering  them  the  jest  of  others,  and  a  bd 
den  to  themselves,  materially  endangers  their  eternal  salratioj 

11.  Their  ideas  and  feelings  on  spiritual  matters  are  just  { 
variable  as  on  all  other  occasions ;  thoir  plans  of  amendnuj 
and  regularity,  though  fluently  mtered  on  with  ardor, ' 
as  frequently  abandoned ;  consequently  there  can  be  no 
sons  so  little  likely  1o  gam  a  crown,  which' is  prcnnised  onI;| 
perseverance. 

12.  Se^ishness  U  a  common  failing,  and  ft  pecnliarly 
miable  one,  when  it  predmninates  in  a  character.    Tlioj 

persons  who  make  se^tiidr  idol,  are  firom  morning  till  n^ 
occupied  in  providing  for  their  own  hkdividaal  gratification! 
pleasure,  and  in  taking  measures  for  warding  off  from  tli 


PRKDOMINANT    PASSIONS. 


dl 


jcB  erory  thing  in  the  shape  of  trouble,  inconvenience,  prov« 
|tion,  &c.;  thus  they  become  almost  the  sole  objects  of 

own  thoughts,  solicitudes,  and  exertions. 
[3.  They  generally  manifest  their  predominant  failing  to 
least  attentive  observer,  by  an  habitual  inattention  or 
liTerence  when  the  gratification  of  others  is  in  question,  by 
[unfeeling  hiseusibility  for  the  misfortunes  of  their  fellow- 
itures,  and  by  being  the  last  to  make  an  exertion  for  their 
bf.  They  seem  almost  incapable  of  taking  part  in  the  pains 
Pleasures  of  others ;  every  species  of  misfortune  or  gratifi- 
|on  pleases  or  grieves  them,  precisely  only  in  as  much  as 

perceive  it  is  likely  to  affect  them  individually. 
[4.  A  propensity  to  extravagant  partialitiea  its  a  fault  which 
inently  predominates  in  some  warm,  impetuous  characters, 
^se  persons  are  distinguished  by  a  precipitate  selection  of 
)rites  in  every  society ;  by  an  ovei^ow  of  marked  atten- 
to  the  objects  of  their  predilection,  whose  mterests  they 
)uae,  whose  very  faults  they  attempt  to  justify,  whoiiio 
lions  they  support  whether  right  or  wrong,  and  wLose 
they  defend  often  at  the  expense  of  good  sense,  chanty, 
leration,  and  even  common  justice. 
|5.  Woe  to  the  person,  whether  superior  or  inferior,  who 
tures  to  dissent  from  them  in  opinion  concerning  the  objects 
leir  admuation ;  that  alone  exposes  them  to  aversion  and 
lure.  The  friendship  or  affection  of  such  characters  does 
[deserve  to  be  valued,  fbr  it  results  not  tcom  discernment 
\ent,  but  bUnd  prejudice ;  besides,  they  are  remarkable  for 
]>ymg  those  whom  they  think  proper  to  rank  among  their 
frites,  both  by  expecting  to  engross  their  whole  attention 
)nftdence,  and  resenting  every  mark  of  kindness  they  may 
proper  to  show  to  others.  However,  as  their  affections 
In  general  as  short-lived  as  they  are  ardent,  no  one  person 
^ely  to  be  tormented  long  with  the  title  of  their  friend. 

The  foregoing  are  the  chief  among  those  passions  to 

^h  the  generality  of  mankind  are  subject.    There  nre  also 

riety  of  other  shapes,  in  which  the  capital  sins  generally 

}minate  in  different  <;haracter8.    It  would  not  be  easy  to 

lorate  them,  but  you  will  not  find  it  difficult,  aided  by  the 


•f 


TMK  lillKI)   RKADKK* 


gr«ce  of  Ood,  to  discover  your  capital  enemy,  provided  ;| 
ordevitly  beg  that  grace  and  light,  and  are  sincerely  deHiru 
to  overcome  it  to  the  utmost  of  your  power. 

17.  The  following  marks  by  which  you  may  discern  p 
roling  passion,  are  pointed  out  by  St.  Chrysostom,  and 
assist  your  examination  on  this  important  point:  1st.  Yo 
predominant  passion  is  that  propensity,  disposition,  or  fuilii| 
which  is  the  ordinary  cause  of  your  faults  and  sins.  2d.  Ill 
that  which  chiefly  disturbs  the  peace  of  your  soul,  and  oul 
sions  yott  most  remorse  and  uneasy  reflections.  8d.  That  I 
which  yon  are  obliged  to  accuse  yourself  most  frequentljj 
confession. 

18.  4th.  That  which  gives  occasion  to  the  greatest  conflid 
in  your  soul,  and  which  you  fee\most  repugnance  to  overcoi 
5th.  That  which  usually  influences  your  deliberations,  inU 
tions,  or  projects,  and  which  is  the  chief  motive  of  all  ytj 
actions ;  that,  in  a  word,  which  is  most  untractable  and  dei 
ly  rooted  in  your  heart ;  for  if,  when  wounded  on  that  poi^ 
you  feel  sensibly  hurt,  it  is  an  evident  mark  that  there  is  jq 
predominant  passion,  your  capital  enemy,  tho  greatest  obstii 
to  God's  grace,  and  to  your  eternal  salvation. 


17.  My  Bot  Absalom. 


Pulse,   the   motion   of  the 

blood. 
Tress'es,  knots  or  curls  of 

hair. 


Reed,  a  hollow  knotted  st 

a  pipe. 
Pall,  a  covering  thrown 

the  dead. 


1.    A  LAS  1  my  noble  boy  1  ihsA  tbon  shonldst  die  I 
■^  Thou,  who  wcrt  made  so  beautifully  fair  1 
That  death  should  settle  in  tby  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  st31ne»  in  this  clustering  hair  t 
IIow  could  he  mark  thee  far  tb.o  silent  tomb  I 
My  prouil  boy,  Absalom  I 


MY   BOY    ABSALOM. 


enemy,  proTltled  ;l 
are  sincerely  deHiro| 
»wer. 

rou  may  discern  ]^ 
Chrysostom,  and 
ant  point :  1st.  Y(^ 
disposition,  or  fuilitj 
\M  and  sins.  2d.  Iij 
your  soul,  and  okI 
ections.  8d.  That! 
elf  most  freqnentljj 

the  greatest  confliij 
tugnance  to  overcoij 
r  deliberations,  inti 
3f  motive  of  all  yij 
untractable  and  da 
tunded  on  that 
^rk  that  there  is  ]i 

the  greatest  obstai 
ation. 


"  Cold  is  tliy  brow,  my  son  I  and  I  am  cU311, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  preiw  th»e  I 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill. 
Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet '  mxjfatherV  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom  t 


^^ 


>>^ 


hollow  knotted  at 


.^;a^- 


"  But  death  is  on  thee.    I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young ; 

And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush. 
And  the  durk  tresses  to  the  soft  wmds  flung  ;— 

But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shall  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom ! 

"  And  oh  I  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 


54 


TMJfi  THIKI)   RKAI>FJK. 


How  wiU  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart, 
Team  for  thine  ear  to  drmk  its  last  deep  token  1 

It  were  so  swCet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom  1       ■ 

6.  "  ^nd  now,  farewell  I    'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  np, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee  ;~- 

And  thy  dark  sin  I — Oh !  I  could  drink  the  cup, 
If  from  this  woe  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 

May  God  have  calPd  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home^ 
My  lost  boy,  Absalom  I" 

6.  He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bow^d  bunself 
A  moment  on  his  child ;  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasp'd 
His  hands  conTularely  aa  if  in  prayer ; 
And,  as  if  strengtb  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rosQ  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently — and  left  him  there— 
As  if  his  rast  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 


18  Thb  Sgholab's  YiBioir. 


Vis'ioN,  supematoral  appear- 

ance. 
Gen'tu-rt,  a  hundred  year». 
Stu-pid'i-tt,  extreme  dnlness. 


Tub'bu-lbnt,  tnmnltnous,  di»  | 

orderly. 
Sup-pobt'ed,  aided,  assisted. 
Con-ckal'ino,  hiding. 


AMONG  the  students  of  the  TJniversity  of  Padua  during  I 
the  early  part  of  the  thirteenth  century,  there  was  aj 
scholar  by  the  name  of  Albert  de  Groot,  a  native  of  Lawingen  [ 
a  town  of  Swabia,  now  fallen  into  decay.  Albert  was  remark 
able  for  his  stupidity  and  the  dukess  of  his  intellect,  and  waij 
at  once  the  object  of  ridicule  to  his  companions,  and  the  vie*! 
tim  of  his  teachers. 

2.  In  addition  to  his  mental  defects,  he  was  timid  and  shy,} 
and  without  any  powers  of  speech  to  defend  bunself  agninsi 


THE  BCROLAK'S  TI3ION. 


55 


tanntg  and  jeers  of  his  schoolmates.    Even  his  diminutiye 
for  one  of  his  age,  being  then  fifteen  years  old,  did  not 

ipe  the  keenness  of  their  satire. 

Albert  was  not  insensible  to  their  raillery,  and  more  than 
^e  would  have  listened  to  the  temptation  of  despair,  had  it 

been  for  the  care  of  Us  virtnons  mother,  the  ardent  piety 
^h  which  she  had  inspired  his  youthful  nund,  and  his  tend<r 

lively  devotion  to  the  Blessed  Virgin. 
If  he  felt  it  hard  to  endure  the  jeers  and  ridicule  of  his 

apanions,  yet,  when  he  considered  that  he  had  neither  read- 

ss,  memory,  nor  mtelligence,  he  thought  within  hunself  that 
ftbably  he  deserved  all  their  reproaches ;  and  that  the  career 
[science,  which  he  so  ardently  desired,  was  not  his  vocation. 
Deeply  influenced  by  this  conviction,  at  the  age  of  six- 
^n,  he  applied,  for  admission  into  the  Dominican  Order,  thmk- 

that  if  he  did  not  shine  among  the  brilliant  men  who  were 

glory,  yet  at  least  he  might  the  better  save  his  soul.  The 
^neral  of  the  Order,  who  was  of  his  own  country,  gave  him 
dnd  welcome,  and  received  him  into  the  convent  to  complete 

studies. 
|6.  But,  alas  !  he  found  m  the  cloister  the  same  sorrows  he 
sought  to  avoid.    His  slow  wit  and  dull  intellect  could 
ke  in  nothing,  or  express  nothing ;  and  though  he  found 
^re  charity  among  the  novices  than  among  «;he  turbulent 

ients  of  the  univeiL;7ity,  yet  he  saw  clearly  that  ho  was 
^ked  upon  as  the  lowest  in  the  house. 

r.  His  piety  and  humility  for  a  long  time  suj^rted  him ; 

courage  did  not  fail ;  he  looked  forward  mih  hope  to  the 

when  his  perseverance  would  surmount  all  obstacles  and 
^ak  the  bonds  which  held  him  captive.    He  took  the  habit, 
became  a  monk ;  but  still  his  backwardness  as  a  scholar 
|i  tinned. 

After  two  years  <^  patience,  he  began  to  be  thoroughly 

couraged ;  he  thought  he  had  been  mistaken ;  that  perhaps 

had  yielded  to  an  impulse  of  pride  in  ent«ring  an  order 
lose  mission  it  was  to  preach  to  the  people,  and  to  proclaim 
]the  world  the  faith  of  Christ;  and  which,  eonseqiumtly, 

(ht  to  be  dictinguiihed  for  science  as  well  as  for  vbtae : 


56 


1UK    rtllRD   RBADKR. 


and  considering  that  he  should  never  be  able  to  master  eitlj 
lof^ic  or  eloquence,  he  resolved  to  fly  fh)m  the  convent. 

9.  Concealing  the  matter  from  every  human  being,  he 
fided  the  subject  of  his  departure  to  the  Blessed  Vii^n,  I 
consolation  in  all  his  trials.  On  the  night  fixed  for  his  ( 
partnre  he  prayed  longer  than  usual,  then,  after  waiting  ti\U 
the  convent  was  asleep,  he  went  from  his  cell,  gained  witho 
noise  the  walls  of  the  garden,  and  fixed  a  ladder  against  the 
But  before  he  ascended,  he  knelt  again  and  prayed  to  God  i 
tu  .condemn  the  step  he  was  takmg,  for  that  nevertheless  I 
would  serve  him,  and  belong  to  him,  and  to  him  alone. 

10.  As  he  was  about  to  rise,  he  beheld  four  majestic  la 
advancing  towards  him.    They  were  surrounded  b}  ^ 
radiance,  while  their  dignity  tempered  with  sweetm  ^i . 
renity,  inspired  him  with  confidence  and  respect.    Two  of  thei 
]daced  themselves  before  the  ladder,  as  if  to  prevent  him  fro^ 
ascending. 

11.  The  third  drawmg  near,  asked  him  kindly  why  he  thJ 
departed,  and  how  he  could  desert  his  convent  and  tlurow  hq 
self  without  a  guide  into  the  dangers  of  a  wicked  world, 
bert,  without  rising  fh)m  the  ground,  pleaded  as  an  excuse 
obstinate  incapacity,  which  resisted  iJl  the  efforts  of  his 
severance. 

12.  "  It  is,"  sud  the  lady,  "  because  you  seek  in  the  me 
human  strength  of  your  own  intellect,  the  light  wldch  coi 
only  fh)m  God.  Behold  your  Mother,"  pointing  to  the  four 
lady,  "  your  amiable  protectress,  who  loves  you  tenderly ; 
her  for  the  gift  of  knowledge ;  implore  her  with  confideiice| 
our  intercession  shall  second  you." 

18.  The  scholar  recognised  in  the  fouHh  lady  the  Immao 

(ate  Queen  of  Heaven,  and  bending  his  face  to  the  ground,  i 

tsked  her  in  all  the  fervor  of  his  heart  for  the  light  of  scieno 

as  heretofore  he  had  only  prayed  for  the  graces  which  tendc^ 

c  salvation. 

II.  "Science,  my  son,"  answered  the  amiable  Virgin,  "I 
"ul^  of  dangers ;  but  your  prayer  shall  not  be  rejected.    If 
philosophy,  which  you  so  much  desire,  beware  of  pride ; 
not  your  heart  be  pnffod  up.    Long  shall  yon  possess  the 


THE  8CH0LAB  b  VISION. 


M 


bience ;  and  I  promise  yon,  as  a  rewaijl  of  jova  piety,  that 

^ght  shall  be  withdrawn  from  yon  the  moment  it  becomes 
Brons  to  yon." 

.  The  vision  disappeared,  bnt  Albert  remained  for  an 
on  his  knees  thanking  God,  and  pouring  forth  the  most 

ent  devotions  to  the  Qaeen  of  Angels,  who  had  so  kmdly 
)8ed  in  his  behalf.    He  then  removed  the  ladder  and 

ed  to  his  cell. 

).  The  next  morning  the  whole  convent  was  surprised  at 
(extraordinary  change  that  had  come  over  Albert ;  m  his 

Bes  he  astonished  both  the  teachers  and  scholars.    His 

ler  heavmess  had  given  way  to  the  liveliest  and  most  subtle 
|lligence;  he  understood  every  thing;  the  most  difficult 

)lems  were  solved  with  a  clearness  that  astonished  all. 
\1.  No  one,  however,  was  aware  of  the  vision,  for  the 
ible  scholar  kept  it  a  secret.    So  rapidly  did  he  advance 
lis  studies,  especially  in  philosophy,  that  in  one  year  ho 
Bed  all  his  companions,  and  even  eclipsed  his  teachers. 

piety  and  humility  increased  with  his  learning,  and  he  ever 
liained  inaccessible  to  the  seductions  of  the  world  and  vain 


18.  The  scholar,  who  obtamed  this  extraordinary  gift 
[knowledge,  as  the  reward  of  his  tender  devotion  to  the 
^ssed  Virgin,  was  the  celebrated  Albertua  Magnus,  who 

so  distinguished  during  the  thirteenth  century.    For  fifty 
^rs  he  astonished  all  Europe  by  the  vastness  of  his  learning 
the  profoundness  of  his  teaching. 

19.  Whenever  he  spoke,  crowds  gathered  to  hear  him ;  and 
I  ^scourse  always  produced  the  most  salutary  results :  yet 
I  to  the  age  of  seventy-five,  he  had  never  experienced  the 
^htest  movement  of  vanity. 

iO.  It  happened,  however,  on  a  certun  occasion  as  he  wtm 
^aching  at  Oologne,  and  seeing  the  immense  audience  eleo- 
led  at  his  discourse,  he  lifted  his  head  with  an  air  of  dignity 

was  about  to  indulge  in  a  thought  of  self-admiration,  when 
[stopped  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  a  learned  sentence,  and 
pcended  firom  the  pulpit  without  being  able  to  finish  it.    He 

lost  his  memory.  \ 


88 


TIIR  TIIIKD   RKADKR. 


SI.  Hie  Holy  Tirgin,  tbrongh  whose  intercession  he 
obtained  the  g'ft  of  knowledge,  appeared  to  hhn  and  deprifi 
him  of  it  at  the  moment  when  it  was  about  tc  become  dangJ 
ons  to  him.  He  fell  back  iato  the  state  oT  dnlness  which  ( 
had  deplored  at  Padna.  He  understood  the  warning,  ai 
devoted  all  his  thoughts  to  prepare  himself  for  a  holy  deal 
irhich  took  place  two  years  after,  on  tl.e  15th  of  >j 
/ember,  1282. 

22.  Let  children  learn  from  this  example,  to  place  tli(| 
studies  under  the  patronage  of  the  Queen  (f  Hearen,  andi 
ceive  with  the  ^ft  of  knowlevige,  those  Tirtmes  which 
render  them  ornaments  of  society,  and  worthy  candidates  i 
heaven. 


19.  BiBTH  OF  OUB  SaYIOUB. 


Gbn'sub,  an  enumeration. 
Naz'a-reth,    the    vUIage    in 

which  our  Saviour  lived. 
Bkth'le-hev,  the  village   in 

which  our  Saviour  was  bom. 


Ma'oi,  wi-ie  men  of  the  East] 
Ad-mis'sion,  admittance. 
Pur'chased,  bought. 
Mes-si'ah,  name  given  to  on 
Saviour. 


Bead  deliberately,  and  pnuM  to  take  breath  and  compress  your  lip 
Give  t  its  proper  sound.    Do  not  Mjpukhm  (or  purehoie;  Mesiiarin^ 
Muriah. 

AUGUSTUS  G^SAR  having  commanded  a  census  to  1 
taken  .of  all  the  population  of  the  empire,  Joseph  au 
Mary  went  fh)m  Nazareth  to  Bethlehem,  whence  their  faniil;9 
had  its  origin.    There  it  was  that,  m  the  year  of  the  worU[ 
4004»  the  Son  of  Qod  came  into  the  worlds  at  the  dead  hon 
of  night  and  in  a  poor  stable,  the  poverty  of  Joseph  being  lo 
great  to  pay  for  admission  to  an  inn. 

2.  His  bhrth  wai  speedily  announced  by  the  angels  to  soml 
shepherds  who  were  watching  their  flocks  by  night.    "  Olor^ 
to  Ood"  sang  the  heavenly  messengers,  making  known  tb 
joyful  tidings,  "  Olory  to  Ood  in  0\e  higheai,  and  on  ear(i| 
peace  to  men  of  good  will!" 

i.  Eight  days  aftei  his  birth  be  was  cirenmdsed,  and  oil 


bikth  of  ouk  saviour. 


B» 


snmeised,  and  oil 


same  day  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  St.  Joseph,  conforma- 
tbe  command  which  they  had  received  from  Qod  by  an 
\\,  gave  him  the  name  of  Jesua,  which  signifies  Saviour, 
[use  he  came  to  save  all  men,  and  to  deliver  them  from  sin 
Ihell. 

To 'the  name  of  Jeavs  has  been  added  that  of  Christ, 
^h  means  sacred  or  anoiiited,  not  that  he  was  visibly  con- 
ited  by  hands,  but  by  reason  of  his  hypostatical  union 
the  Father. 

fe  also  caU  Jesus  Christ  Our  Lord,  because  he  has  a  par> 
lar  claim  on  all  Christians,  whom  he  has  redeemed  and 
Chased  at  the  price  of  his  blood. 

A  few  days  after  Jesus  was  circumcised,  he  was  recog^ 

^d  as  God  and  as  king  by  three  Magi,  who,  guided  by  a 

came  from  the  East  to  adore  him.    Having  reached 

salem,  they  lost  sight  of  the  star,  and  went  about  inquir' 

i  for  the  new-bom  king  of  the  Jews. 

The  doctors  of  the  law,  being  interrogated  by  Herod, 

of  Galilee,  made  answer  that  the  Messiah  was  to  be  bom 

{ethlehem.    Herod,  being  alarmed  by  this  announcement, 

already  meditating  the  death  of  the  divine  infant,  engaged 

Magi  to  return  and  acquaint  him  with  the  place  where  the 

Id  wcs  to  be  found,  falsely  saying  that  he,  too,  would  wish 

idore  hun. 

The  Magi,  resumiig  their  journey,  found  the  child,  to 

)m  they  presented  gifts  of  gold,  frankincense,  and  myrrh ; 

being  warned  by  an  angel  that  Herod  only  sought  to  kill 

)  infant,  they  returned  by  another  way  to  their  own  country. 

Forty  days  after  the  birth  of  Jesus,  the  Blessed  Virgin 

St.  Joseph  took  him  to  the  temple,  to  present  him  to  God, 

)rding  to  the  custom  of  the  Jews,  he  being  the  .first-born. 

Blessed  Vir^  at  the  same  time  fulfilled  the  law  of  puri 

ition,  and  offered  what  the  laV  ordained,  that  is  to  say,  9 

lb  for  her  son,  and  for  herself,  a  pair  of  doves,  being  th« 

ts  usually  maae  by  the  poor — what  examples  of  humility, 

~  of  obedience  to  the  law  I 

).  Herod,  seeing  that  the  Magi  refeurocd  no  mere,  conodved 
design  of  putting  to  death  all  children  under  two  yiun 


do 


TIIK  'rilllcn    KKAhKB 


of  age,  whom  he  could  find  in  Bethlehem  or  its  vicinity, 
ing  thua  to  make  sure  of  destroying  the  Saviour.  But! 
Joseph,  apprised  of  this  design  by  an  angel,  fled  into  Eg 
with  Jesus  and  Mary,  where  he  remained  till  after  the  dc 
of  that  barbarous  prince. 

10.  He  then  returned  to  Judea,  and  again  took  up 
Ijode  in  Nazareth  of  Galilee ;  hence  Jesus  was  called,  throi^ 
ontempt,  the  Nazarene. 

The  gospel  tells  us  that  at  the  age  of  twelve  years  Je 
was  taken  to  Jerusalem  to  celebrate  the  festival  of  the  Pa 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  Jews,  when  he  remained  I 
hmd  in  the  temple  unperceived  by  his  parents. 

1 1.  When  they  found  that  he  was  not  with  thorn,  they  son^ 
him  in  vain  for  a  whole  day,  whereupon  they  returned  to . 
rusalem,  where  they  found  him  in  the  temple,  seated  amid  til 
doctors,  listening  to  them  and  proposing  to  them  questions  | 
a  manner  so  astonishing  that  all  who  heard  hun  were  surpiij 
ed  by  his  wisdom  and  his  answers. 

12.  At  the  age  of  thirty  years,  Jesus  Ohrist  was  baptii/ 
by  St.  John  the  Baptist  in  the  river  Jordan ;  at  which  tii 
the  Holy  Ohost  descended  upon  him  in  the  foni)  of  a  doij 
and  the  eternal  Father  declared  from  the  highest  li^vens  th 
Jesus  Christ  was  indeed  his  beloved  Son. 

18.  Soon  after  this,  Jesus  Christ  waS  conducted  by 
Holy  Ghost  into  the  desert,  where  he  fasted  forty  days, 
is  in  honor  and  in  commemoration  of  this  fast  of  Jesus  CI 
that  the  Church  has  instituted  the  fast  of  Lent. 

Our  Lord  at  that  time  permitted  himself  to  be  tempted  1 
the  devil,  in  order  to  teach  us  not  to  fear  temptation,  and  al^ 
the  manner  in  which  we  must  resist  it,  so  as  to  rendeV  it  eTtj 
meritorious  for  our  souls. 

14.  ExAMPLB.    A  certain  mother  whose  piety  was  as 
8  her  faith  was  enlightened,  recommended  to  her-  children 

pass  no  day  without  asking  the  child  Jesus  for  his  blessii 
"When,"  said  she,  "yon  are  at  your  mormng  and  evenioj 

tirayers,  picture  to  yourself  the  Blessed  Virgin,  carrying  i 
ler  anps  the  infant  Jesus. 

15.  "Bow  down  respectfully  before  her.  and  say  with 


SI'ANISII    ANHCDOTK. 


61 


d  again  took  up 
ua  waa  called,  throa 


Bible  fenror ;  'O  Marj !  deign  to  extend  over  me  the  hand 
\hj  divine  Son,  so  that  being  blessed  by  him,  I  may  avoid 

evil  which  is  displeasing  to  him,  and  practise  the  good 
^ch  is  agreeable  to  him ;  that  I  may  imitate  him  in  his  obe* 
nee  and  in  all  his  other  vittnes,  so  that  I  may  become  wor^ 

of  possessmg  him  with  thee  in  heaven  I' " 


20.  A  Spanish  Aneodotb. 


B-rxo'TO-BT,  a  diidng^room  in 
(convents  and  monasteries. 
-ron'o-mitx,  a  monk. 
is-oebned',  descried,  seen. 


Fa*mil'iar,     intunate,     wd^ 

known. 
Eo'sTA-sT,  rapture,  trance. 
Va'oakt,  empty. 


1.  TT  was  a  holy  usage  to  record 

-L  Upon  each  refeotory^t  side  or  end 
The  last  mysteriou  supper  of  oar  Lord, 
That  meanest  aiqpetites  might  upward  tend. 

2.  Within  the  convent-palace  of  old  Spun, — 

\  Rich  with  the  gifts  and  monuments  of  kings, — ^ 
Hung  such  a  {ucture,  8a'4  by  somd  to  reign 
The  soyreiga  glory  of  those  wondrous  things. 

8.  A  painter  of  far  fame,  in  deep  delight, 

Dwelt  on  each  beauty  he  so  weU  disoemM ; 
While,  in  low  tones,  a  gray  Geronomite 
This  answer  to  his  ecstasy  returned : 

4.  "  Stranger  1  J  hare  received  my  ^ly  meal 
In  this  good  company  now  threescore  years ; 
And  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art,  canst  hardly  feel 
How  time  these  lifeless  images  endears. 

6.  "Lifeless  I  ah,  no,  while  in  my  heart  are  stored 
Sad  memories  of  my  brethren  dead  and  gone, 


e^ 


TIIK   'tlllKD    KKADKR. 


Familiar  places  vacant  round  onr  board, 
And  still  that  silent  supper  lasting  on  1 

6   "  While  I  review  my  youth, — what  I  was  then,— 
What  I  am  now,  and  ye,  beloved  ones  all, — 
It  seems  as  if  these  were  the  livmg  men. 
And  we  the  color'd  shadows  on  the  wall.'' 


21.  Anbodoteb  of  Doos. 


Keek'nkss,  sharpness. 

Lrr^ER-A-TURB,  learning,  ac- 
quaintance with  books. 

S^A-GAo'i-TT,  quick  discernment 
in  animals. 


Giv'iL-izBD,   reclafaned    flronf 

barbarism. 
Do-mks^i-oa'tiok,  the  aict  ol| 

making  tame. 
Em-phat'ic,  forcible. 


I^HE  dog  stands  to  man  In  the  relation  both  of  a  yalnable 
.  servant  and  an  engaging  companion.  In  many  employ- 
ments,  especially  those  of  shepherds  and  herdsmen,  he  perfonns 
services  of  great  importance,  such  as  could  not  be  supplied 
without  him     In  those  sports  of  the  field,  such  as  hunting  and 


ANKODOTKS  OK   IM>G8. 


«% 


ag,  which  mauy  persons  pursue  with  such  eogerucss,  the 
mce  of  the  dog  is  essential,  to  success. 
[By  his  keenness  of  scent  he  discovers  the  game,  and  by 
nftness  of  foot  he  runs  it  down.  There  is  no  period  of 
recorded  by  history  in  which  we  do  not  find  tlie  dog  the 
and  the  servant  of. man;  nor  is  there  any  literature 
does  not  contain  some  tribute^to  his  faithfulness  au« 
tity. 

:  The  savage,  roaming  over  the  pathless  wilderness,  and 

ident  upon  the  animals  in  the  forest  and  the  fish  in  the 

IS  for  his  daily  food ;  and  the  civilized  man,  dwelling  in 

ifortable  honse  in  a  town  or  village,  agree  in  the  attacb- 

they  feel  for  their  fonr-footed  friends.    Many  men  of 

eminence  in  literature  and  science  have  been  remarkable 

^eir  fondness  for  dogs ;  and  more  than  one  poet  has  Bnug 

|>raises  of  particular  specunens  of  the  race. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  was  strongly  attached  to  them,  and 

me  or  more  of  them  about  him  at  all  tunes  during  his 

In  one  of  his  works  he  thus  speaks  of  them :  "  The 

jighty,  who  gave  the  dog  to  be  the  companion  of  our 

Bures  and  our  toils,  has  invested  him  with  a  nature  noble 

[incapable  of  deceit.    He  forgets  neither  friend  nor  foe ; 

)mbers,  and  with  accuracy,  both  benefit  and  injury. 

"  He  has  a  share  of  man's  intelligence,  but  no  share  of 

f  s  falsehood.    Ton  may  bribe  a  soldier  to  slay  a  man  with 

bword,  or  a  witness  to  take  life  by  false  accusation,  but 

[cannot  make  a  dog  tear  his  benefactor.    He  is  the  friend 

m,  save  when  man  justly  incurs  his  enmity.'' 

A  long  course  of  domestication,  and  peculiar  modes  of 

img  and  rearing,  have  divided  the  canine  race  into  nearly 

iindred  varieties ;  many  of  which  shoW  marked  difference  in 

and  appearance.    The  savage  bnlldog  seems  hardly  to 

bg  to  the  same  race  as  the  delicate  lapdog,  that  sleeps  on 

rug,  and  is  washed  and  combed  by  its  fair  mistress  almost 

^arefully  as  an  infant. 

The  swift  and  slim  greyhound  looks  very  little  like  the 
^dy  and  square-built  mastiff.  Bat  there  are  cwtiiin  traits 
Character,  which,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  are  cuinmon 


64 


TUB  TillKl)  UKADBR. 


to  all  the  kinds.  Sagacitj,  docility,  benevolenoe,  a  oaj 
to  receive  instraction,  and  attachment  to  his  master's  per 
are  qualities  which  belong  to  the  whole  race.  Many  anecdotj 
are  to  be  found  in  books,  illostrating  the  Tirtnes  and  intelj 
gence  of  the  dog,  Arom  which  we  hare  made  a  selection  for  tl| 
entertainment  of  our  young  readers. 

8.  Many  instances  have  been  recorded  in  which  per 
have  been  saved  firom  drowning  by  dogs,  especially  by  tho 
of  the  Newfoundland  breed,  which  have  a  natural  love  of  tlil 
water.    A  vessel  was  once  driven  on  the  beach  by  a  storm  ii 
the  county  of  Kent,  in  England.    Eight  men  were  calling  f({ 
help,  but  not  a  boat  could  be  got  off  to  their  assistance. 

9.  At  length  a  gentleman  came  on  the  beach  aocompaDiei 
by  his  Newfoundland  dog.  He  directed  the  attention  of  tU 
noble  animal  to  the  vessel,  and  put  a  short  stick  into 
mouth.  The  intelligent  and  courageous  dog  at  once  undo 
stood  his  meamng,  and  sprang  into  the  sea,  fighthig  his  m\ 
through  the  foaming  waves.  He  could  not,  however, 
close  enough  to  the  vessel  to  deliver  that  with  which  he  wii 
charged,  but  the  crew  joyfully  made  fast  a  rope  to  ai  otbd 
piece  of  wood,  and  threw  it  towards  him. 

10.  The  sagacious  dog  saw  the  whole  business  in  an  instantj 
he  dropped  his  own  piece,  and  immediately  seized  that  whid 
had  been  cast  to  him ;  and  then,  with  a  degree  of  strengtlj 
and  determmation  ahnoet  incredible,  he  dragged  it  through  tb 
surge,  and  delivered  it  to  his  master.    By  this  means  a  line  ( 
communication  was  formed,  and  every  man  on  board  saved. 

11.  A  person,  while  rowing  a  boat,  pushed  his  Newfoo 
land  dog  into  the  stream.  The  anunal  followed  the  boat  foi| 
seme  time,  till  probably  finding  himself  fatigued,  he  endeavor 
to  get  mto  it  by  placing  his  feet  on  the  eide.  His  ownei 
repeatedly  pushed  the  dog  away ;  and  in  one  of  his  eflforts  i 
lo  so,  he  lost  his  balance  and  fell  into  the  river,  and  wouldj 
probably  have  been  drowned,  had  not  the  affectionate 
generous  animal  immediately  seized  and  held  him  above  water| 
till  assistance  arrived  from  the  shore. 

12.  A  boatman  once  plunged  into  the  water  to  swim  witii| 
another  man  for  a  wager.    His  Newfoundland  dog,  mistakiufj 


ANKClwrrKS   OV   D()08. 


6» 


purpose  and  snpposing  that  his  master  was  in  danger, 
knged  after  him,  and  dragged  him  to  the  shore  by  his  hair, 
the  great  Aversion  of  the  spectators. 
[13.  Nor  are  the  good  oiBces  of  dogs  to  man  displayed  only 
the  water.  A  young  man  in  the  north  of  England,  while 
was  tending  Ids  father's  sh^p,  had  the  misfortune  to 
|i  and  break  his  leg.  He  was  three  miles  firom  home,  in 
unfrequented  spot,  where  no  one  was  likely  to  approach  ; 
lening  was  fast  approaching,  and  he  was  in  great  pain  from 
le  flracture.  In  this  dreadful  condition,  he  folded  one  of  his 
|oves  in  a  pocket  handkerchief,  fastened  it  around  the  dog's 
ck,  and  then  ordered  him  home  in  an  emphatic  tone  of  voice. 

14.  The  dog,  convinced  that  something  was  wrong,  ran 
)me  with  the  utmost  speed,  and  scratched  with  great  violence 

the  door  of  the  house  for  admittance.  The  parents  of  the 
)ung  man  were  £preatly  alarmed  at  his  appearance,  especially 
[ben  they  hod  exammed  the  handkerchief  and  its  contents, 
stantly  cotaclnding  that  some  accident  had  befallen  their  son, 
^ey  did  not  delay  a  moment  to  go  in  search  of  him.  The 
)g  anxiously  led  the  way,  and  conducted  the  agitated  parents 
the  spot,  where  their  suffering  son  was  lying.  Happily,  he 
Iras  removed  just  at  the  close  of  day,  and  the  necessary  assist- 
|nce  being  procured,  he  soon  recovered. 

15.  On  one  of  the  roads  leading  Arom  Switzerland  to  Italy, 
[ailed  the  Pass  of  St.  Bernard,  is  a  convent  situated  at  more 

lan  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  In  the 
iter  tine,  when  the  cold  is  mtense  and  the  snows  are  deep, 
[ivellers  are  eicposed  to  great  danger ;  and  the  inmates  of  the 
)nvent,  when  storms  are  raging,  are  in  the  habit  of  going 
^broad  to  assist  such  wayfarers  as  may  need  their  services. 

16.  They  are  accompanied  by  their  dogs,  a  noble  breed  of 
Itnimals,  who  are  called  by  the  name  of  the  convent  where  they 
ire  kept.  They  carry  food  and  cordials  fastened  at  their  nocks, 
lud  are  able  to  pass  over  snow-wreaths  too  light  to  bear  the 
ireight  of  a  man.  They  are  aided  by  the  acuteness  of  their 
icent  in  finding  the  unfortunate  persons  who  have  been  buried 

|q  the  snow,  and  many  men  have  owed  their  lives  to  the  timelj 
Buucoi  afforded  by  these  ft)ar-footed  philanthropists. 


66 


THE  TIIIHD  BBADKR. 


17.  One  of  them,  which  senred  the  convent  fur  twelve  ye 
Is  said  to  have  been  instramental  in  saving  the  lives  of  f» 
individuals.  He  once  found  a  little  boy,  who  had  become  I 
numbed  by  the  cold,  and  fallen  down  upon  a  wreath  of  sno^ 
By  licking  his  hands  and  face,  and  by  his  caressen,  he  induct 
the  little  fellow  to  get  upon  his  back,  and  cling  with  his  an 
around  his  neck ;  and  in  this  way  he  brought  him  in  triuni|| 
to  the  convent. 

18.  This  incident  forms  the  subject  of  a  well-known  picti 
When  this  dog  died,  his  skin  was  stuffed  and  deposited  in  I 
museum  at  Berne ;  and  the  little  vial  in  which  he  carried  | 
cordial  draught  for  the  exhausted  traveller  still  hangs  ab 
jis  neck.    How  many  men  have  there  been,  endowed 
reason  and  speech,  whose  lives  were  less  useful  than  that  i 
this  noble  dog  I 


22.  The  Burial  op  Sir  John  Hoorr. 


RamVart,  the  wall  of  a  fort- 
ress. 
\[ar'tial,  military. 


Ran'dom,  done  without  aig 

left  to  chance. 
Beck,  care,  mind. 


Do  not  Bay  ubbraid  for  upbraid. 

1.  lyrOT  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
1^  As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 
Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 

O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  was  buried. 

2.  Wo  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night. 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 


8.  No  useless  coiBn  inclosed  his  breast,  # 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  hun. 


v: 


THE  BOKIAL  or  81 K   JollN    MOOKK. 

But  he  laj  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  stfrrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  pnKcd  on  the  face  of  the  deod, 
And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  mo'Tow. 


67 


Wc  thoujrht  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed,     . 

And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  v«rouId  tread  o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  npbraid  him ; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  hun  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 
"W  hen  the  clock  toU'd  the  hour  for  retiring ; 


as 


TUB  TIIIKI)   RKADKR. 


And  we  heard  the  distant  and  randum  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

8.  Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 
We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory. 


23.  I  TRY  TO  BB  Good. 


Vbx-a'tion,  canse  of  trouble. 
Dia-couR'AOB-MBin',  that  which 
abates  conrage. 


Wabn'ino,  previous  notia 

caution. 
Ob'bti-na-ot,  perversenesa.! 


I  TRY  to  be  good,''  said  Emily,  "but  I  have  so  many  vei 
tions,  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  do  as  I  wish ;  for  whenei 
I  feel  pleased  and  happy,  something  will  happen  to  give  i 
h(?avy  heart."  "  But,  child,"  said  her  mother, "  you  should  i 
ubove  these  little  trifles ;  a  sincerely  virtuous  endeavor,  | 
^ceding  from  right  principles,  enables  one  to  overcome  liU 
diRcouragements.  It  was  but  last  evening  I  was  readiDg| 
story  illustrating  this  veiy  sentiment. 

2.  "  It  was  the  confession  of  a  man  who  had  severe  strog 
with  a  bad  temper.    He  said  that  when  he  was  a  little  cm 


I   TUY   T«»   UK  G<H)n. 


69 


JArCT,  penrewenesi 


fas  noted  for  obstinacy,  one  of  the  worst  faults  of  man  or 

He  had  an  indulgent  mother,  who  kindly  softened  his 

jippy  hours  by  devising  various  ways  for  his  entertainment : 

t/  said  he,  '  if  she  did  not  succeed  in  the  plan,  I  was  sure 

^ear  a  sullen  face.' 

"  But,  to  teach  him  how  unjust  and  insensible  he  was  to 

kindness,  his  mother  was  taken  ill,  and  died.    It  was 

he  felt  how  much  he  owed  to  her ;  and  bitter  was  his 

(f  that  he  could  not,  by  future  acts  of  love,  repau:  the  nn- 

)iness  he  had  caused  her.    But  now  that  her  warning 

be  could  not  visit  him,  he  was  left  to  go  on  more  nnre- 

led:  'And,'  stud  he,  'until  I  began  to  see  this  trait  of 

tinacy  manifested  in  my  own  children,  I  never  began  in 

lest  to  correct  it  in  myself.' 

"  Let  this,  Emily,  be  your  warning,"  said  her  devoted 
Ither.  "The  little  trials  of  life  were  designed  to  uiswer  the 
le  purposes  ui  diildren,  that  heavier  ones  are  to  people  of 
|turity ;  and  jnst  in  proportion  as  we  bear  them  now,  shall 
be  fitted  to  endnre  life's  future  ^sdpline.  It  is  not  a  small 
^ter,  if  an  evU  temper  Is  permitted  to  be  indulged  under 
ery  disappointment. 

|5.  "Do  yon  remember,  Emily,  that  ugly-shaped  tree,  that 

|u  desired  the  gardoner  to  remove  the  other  day,  because  it 

ew  so  diq)roDortioned ;  and  you  remember  tbat  he  told  you 

reason  of  its  being  so  Hi-shaped,  was  because  it  was  not 

led  as  it  grew  up." 

6.  "  Yes,  mother,"  said  the  smiling  ^^1 ;  "  and  just  so  it 

be  with  me :  if  I  do  not  watch  over  my  evil  temper  now, 

-I  suppose  you  mean  to  say, — that  like  that  tree,  I  shall  be 

eformed  m  mind,  which  yon  always  told  me  was  a  much 

Bater  blemish  than  a  deformed  body.    I  will  endeavor  to- 

|korrow  to  be  cheerful  all  day."    "And  if  yon  desire  to  be 

)od,"  added  her  mother, "  the  vurtaons  attempt  will  be  attend* 

with  saocess." 


70 


TBK  TIM  kit    KKACRR. 


24.  Tub  Gkekn  Mossy  Bank. 


In'fan-cy,  the  first  period  of 

life. 
Wan'der,  to  rove,  to  ramble. 
Stream,  numing  water. 

Mr, 


Sprat,  water  driven  byi 

wind. 
But'teb-cup,  a  smah  yelj 

flower. 


zyj 


mm 


.IV^;. 


1.  AH,  my  thoughts  are  away  where  my  infimcy  flew, 
V/  Near  the  green  mossy  banks  where  the  butter 

grew. 
Where  the  bright  silver  foantain  eternally  play'd. 
First  laughing  in  sunshine,  then  sighing  in  shade. 
There  in  my  childhood,  I've  wandered  in  play. 
Flinging  up  the  cool  drops  in  a  shower  of  spray, 
Till  my  small  naked  feet  were  all  bathed  in  bright  dew, 
As  I  play'd  on  the  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 

2.  How  softly  that  green  tmnk  sloped  down  from  the  hill, 
To  the  spot  where  the  fountain  grew  suddenly  still ! 
How  cool  was  the  shadow  the  long  branches  gave, 
As  they  hung  from  the  willow  and  dippM  in  the  ware  i 


ON  THE  BAFTIBMAL   VOWS. 


Tl 


Ind  then  each  pale  lily  that  slept  on  the  stream, 
986  and  M  with  the  wave  as  if  stirr'd  by  a  dream. 

lie  my  home  'mid  the  vine-leayes  rose  soft  on  my  view, 
Ls  I  play'd  on  the  bank  where  the  bnttercnps  grew. 

le  beantifol  things !  how  I  watch'd  them  unfold, 
['ill  they  lifted  their  delicate  vases  of  gold. 
)h  1  never  a  spot  smce  those  days  have  I  seen, 

rith  leaves  of  such  freshness  and  flowers  of  such  sheen ; 
[ow  glad  was  my  spirit,  for  then  there  was  nanght, 
fo  harden  its  wing,  save  some  beantifol  thought, 
breaking  np  from  its  depths  with  each  wild  wmd  that  blew 
Vet  the  green  mossy  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 

le  paths  I  have  trod,  I  would  quickly  retrace, 
?ould  I  win  back  the  gladness  that  look'd  from  my  face, 
Ls  I  cool'd  my  warm  lip  in  that  fountain  of  love, 

rith  a  spirit  as  gentle  as  that  of  a  dove, 
yould  I  wander  agun  where  my  forehead  was  starr'd^ 

rith  the  beauty  that  dwelt  in  my  bosom  unmarr'd ; 
ind  calm  as  a  child,  in  the  starlight  and  dew, 
i'all  asleep  on  the  bank  where  the  buttercups  grew. 


25.  On  the  Baptismal  Yows. 


I-CI-PATINO, 

r'l-nED,  confirmed. 
>el'i-tt,  faithfulness. 

3E3'SAMT-LT,   withOttt  CCaS- 

•FBs'sioN,  avowal. 


A-pos'ta-st,  renouncing  oiw't 
faith  or  solemn  promises. 

Pre'cefts,  commandments. 

Thiul'dom,  bondage.  * 

Vi'o-LATB,  to  transgress,  to 
break. 


liTe  each  vowel  its  sound.  Do  not  say  'potlaty  for  apodasy  ;  Jiiddelil§ 
"'"'fi  kwammUy  for  metuanUy, 

^HEN  presented  to  the  Church  to  receive  holy  baptinaa, 
we  were  asked  if  we  believed  in  God,  if  we  wookllivi 
ording  to  the  precepts  of  the  gospel,  and  if  we  renomiced 


72 


THK   TUIKS)    KKADKR. 


with  all  oar  heurt  the  devil  and  his  pomps,  the  W'>rld  an 
maxims ;  and  it  was  only  when  a  formal  and  affirmative  i 
had  been  returned,  that  we  were  admitted  amoi^  the  chO 
of  God. 

2.  It  was,  therefore,  in  the  face  of  heaven  and  earth,  inl 
presence  of  God  and  his  holy  angels,  that  we  promised! 
Qher  the  law  of  Christ,  and  to  practise  it  in  its  fullest  extt 

8.  It  is  true  we  had  not  the  use  of  reason  at  the  tin 
our  baptism ;  but  it  was  for  us  and  in  Our  name  that  I 
promises  were  made ;  we  have  since  ratified  them  as  oftol 
we  made  a  public  profession  of  Christianity ;  we  also  con 
ed  them  every  day  by  making  on  ourselves  the  sign  ofi 
cross,  by  reciting  the  Lord's  prayer,  assisting  at  the  holyi 
rifice  of  the  mass,  and  by  participating  in  the  sacraments. 

4.  We  are  not,  therefore,  our  own  property,  but  belongj 
God,^ur  soul,  our  body,  and  all  are  his.  To  follow  I 
maxuns  of  the  world,  to  seek  after  its  vanities,  to  love  I 
pomps  of  the  devil,  to  be  ashamed  of  the  gospel,  would  bel 
renounce  the  character  of  a  Christian,  violate  our  engagemea 
trample  on  the  blood  of  Jesus  Chi^,  outrage  the  Holy  Ghoj 
and  shamefully  expel  hun  from  our  hearts. 

6.  Let  us,  then,  never  forget  that  these  vows  are  writtes| 
the  book  of  life,  that  God  has  account  of  them  in  heavi 
and  that  we  shall  be  judged  by  them  at  the  hour  of  d« 
On  our  fidelity  in  fulfilling  them  depends  our  salvation  andc 
eternal  destiny. 

6.  In  order  to  keep  them  in  our  minds  we  ought  oftenj 
renew  them,  and  incessantly  to  thank  the  Lord  for  haii 
snatched  us  from  the  thraldom  of  the  Bvil  One,  and  called] 

•  to  the  kmgdom  of  his  Son. 

7.  We  read  m  the  history  of  the  Church  that  a  holy  i 
con,  named  Murrita,  having  answered  at  the  sacred  font  for| 
young  man  named  Elpiphodorus,  had  the  misfortune  to  i 
him  become  an  apostate  and  a  persecutor  of  the  Christians.] 

8.  One  day,  when  he  was  publicly  tormenting  some  Gli 
tians  in  the  midst  of  an  immense  crowd,  the  holy  deacon 
denly  appeared ;  he  had  preserved  the  white  robu  wherei 
Elf^phodoms  had  been  covered  at  his  baptism     ^  presentij 


THE  LITANY. 


78 


him,  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice :  "  Behold  the  witness  of 
apostasy ;  this  will  bear  testimony  against  thee  at  the 

lent-seat  of  God. 

"  Look  upon  this  white  garment  wherewith  I  clothed 

at  the  sacred  font ;  it  will  call  for  Tengeance  npon  thee, 
[it  shall  be  changed  into  a  robe  of  fire  to  bom  thee  for  all 

ity."  The  spectators  were  moved  to  tears  by  this  ad 
bs,  and  Elpiphodoms  withdrew,  covered  with  confusion. 


26.  The  LrrAmr. 


TLE,  cunnmg. 

^nL'cHRAL,  relating  to  the 
smb. 


To  Lurk,  to  he  m  wait. 
LrTANY,  a  solemn   form  of 
prayer. 


I  tills  lesson  slowly  and  pronounce  the  consonants  distinctly. 


I. 


BY  thy  birth  and  early  years ; 
By  thy  human  griefs  and  fears ; 
By  thy  fasting  and  distress, 
In  the  lonely  wilderness ; 
By  thy  victory,  in  the  hour 
Of  the  subtle  tempter's  power — 
Jesus  1  look  with  pitymg  eye, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany. 
4 


74 


THK    riilBD  RKiVT:)K«. 

S   By  th*-!  ayiQpa/hy  tl  t  wepi 

O'er  the  (ipraTe  where  Lazaros  slept  $ 
By  thy  bitter  tears  that  flow'd 
Over  Salem's  lost  abode ; 
By  the  troubled  sigh  t -.at  t(  Id 
Treajion  Inrk'd  vrithm  thy  fold— 
Jesus  I  look  m  itJ  T^itymg  eye, 
Hear  onr  eolemn  liuuiy. 

8.  By  thme  hour  of  dark  despair ; 
By  thine  agony  of  prayer ; 
By  the  purple  robe  of  scorn ; 
By  thy  wounds,  thy  crown  of  thorn, 
Gro»fl  and  passion,  pangs  and  cries ; 
By  thy  perfect  sacrifice — 
Jesus  I  look  with  i^tying  eye, 
Hear  our  solemn  litany. 

i  By  thy  deep  ez{nring  groan ; 
By  the  seal'd  sepulchral  stone ; 
By  thy  trinn^  o'er  the  grave ; 
By  thy  power  from  death  to  save — 
Wf^ty  God  1  ascended  Lord  I 
To  tihy  throne  in  heaven  restored ; 
Prince  and  Saviour  I  hear  thetiy 
Of  our  solemn  litany. 


27.  ThB  SiOK  07  THB  C^088.. 


DisHn'puB,  a  follower,  a  learn* 

er. 
Mts'tk-bt,  something  unez- 

phuned. 


Oow'abd-iok,  hfll>itnal 

ity. 
Ohkst,  the  breast 
Ix-poBr'Airr,  momentous. 


Do  not  mfptrfeubm  fmpnfmtion;  bm  or  bemi  tmbtm(t/ba) ;  Aorj! 
tOtAeirfaUh;  an ueeompttA  fat md  meon^Utk;  wUh th$ aiilmct ^ tkt 
tofytatwOhthi  attktanet  tfthe  Mad  Bofy. 


THB  SIGN   OF  'I UK  CK()88 


n 


loz,  habitual  tin 


make  profesaion  of  our  faith  is  one  of  our  most  essential 
dnties,  for  Jesos  Ohrist  yiSi  not  recognize  as  his  disciples 

Be  who  haye  been  ashamed  of  belonging  to  him,  and  slirank 
declaring  their  faith  openlj. 

S.  One  of  the  best  means  of  showing  that  we  are  Christians, 
^g  in  that  title,  is  to  make  rehgionsly  npon  onrselves  the 
st  sign  of  the  cross. 

).  There  are  two  ways  of  making  the  sign  of  the  cross : 
first  is  by  making  a  cross  with  the  thumb  on  the  forehead, 

ith,  and  bosom ;  it  is  thus  that  the  priest  makes  it  daring 
mass,  when  he  begins  to  read  the  gospels,  and  all  the 

(hfol  shonld  do  the  same. 

1.  We  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  onr  forehead,  to  show 

|t  we  are  Christians,  and  not  ashamed  to  act  as  such ;  on 
month,  to  testify  that  we  are  ever  ready  to  make  profes- 
of  believing  in  God  and  iu  Jesns  Christ ;  and  on  the 
st,  to  show  that  we  love  the  cross  of  Christ,  and  heartily 

teve  what  we  profess. 


w 


THE  THIRD    AKADER. 


5.  The  second  method  of  makmg  the  sign  of  the  cross  isl 
placing  the  right  hand  on  the  forehead,  then  on  the  chij 
then  on  the  left  shoulder,  and  afterwards  on  the  right,  say 
"  In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the 
Ghost." 

6.  When  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  we  profess  the  niii 
of  God  by  saying  these  words  In  the  name,  in  the  smgii| 
namber ;  the  Trinity  of  persons,  by  naming  each  in  torn ;  i 
mystery  of  the  Incarnation  and  that  of  the  Redemption  1 
making  the  form  of  the  cross  on  which  the  Son  of  God  nuj 
man  died  for  us ;  and  the  mystery  of  grace,  by  carrying  i 
hand  from  the  left  side,  which  is  the  figure  of  sin,  to  the 
which  represents  the  grace  merited  for  us  by  Ghrist. 

7.  The  words  "  In  the  name  of  the  Father,"  signify  ag 
"  I  am  going  to  perform  this  action  by  order  of  the  }i\ 
Holy  Trinity;  I  will  obey  it  fidthfolly,  and  accomplish! 
will;  I  do  this  in  honor  of  the  Blessed  Trinity,  desiring | 
render  it  all  the  homage  of  which  I  an  capable. 

8.  "I  am  about  to  perform  this  action  with  the  assistance] 
the  Most  Holy  Trinity ;  acknowledging  that  I  can  do  noth 
without  the  strength  which  comes  from  the  Father,  the  { 
which  the  Son  has  merited  for  me,  and  the  light  which 
ceedd  from  the  Holy  Ghost." 

9.  We  should  not  fail  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  at  lei 
mormng  and  erening,  before  and  after  meals,  at  the  beg 
and  end  of  our  prayers,  and  when  setting  about  any  impor 
action ;  it  is  a  great  means  of  drawing  down  upon  oorseiij 
and  our  u!  iertakings  the  blessing  of  God. 

10.  We  should  also  make  it,  at  least  on  our  heart,  whenj 
find  ourselves  exposed  to  danger  or  temptation,  to  the 
that  we  may  be  delivered  therefrom,  and  preserved  fi^ 
offending  God. 

11.  A  young  girl  blushed  while  making  the  sign  of  the  ( 
on  an  ocMsion  when  it  is  usual  to  make  it,  and  that 

stranger  was  present.    This  was  noticed  by  a  certain  pioj 
person,  who  soon  made  her  ashamed  of  her  cowardice, 
want  of  love  for  Jesus  Christ. 

12.  "What!"  said  he,  '*  Jesus  was  not  ashamed  todiej 


TDK  THREE  FSTENDS. 


w 


{cross  to  redeem  yoa,  yet  yon  blush  to  form  on  yonrself  the 

ist  sign  of  your  redemption  I"    He  added,  "  I  hope  that 

iture  V  (1  will  glory  in  belonging  to  your  adorable  Master. 

the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost  bless  yon,  throngh  the 

^ion  and  death  of  Oar  Lord  Jesos  Christ  1'' 


28.  The  Tf.beb  Friends. 


ftusT,  confidence,  reliance). 
I^Ris'oK,  a  jail. 


Wor'tht,  deserving. 
Heed,  care,  attention. 


t  ashamed  to  diet 


ITJST  no  friend  whom  yon  have  not  tried.  There  are 
>  more  of  them  at  the  festive  board  than  at  the  prison  door. 
\.  A  man  had  three  friends ;  two  of  them  he  loved  mnch, 

for  the  third  he  cared  little,  though  he  was  well  worthy 
lis  affection.  This  man  was  once  sommoned  before  the 
^e  and  strongly  accused  of  a  crime  of  which  he  was  really 
scent.  "  Who  among  yon,^  said  he,  **  will  go  with  me,  and 

evidence  in  ny  behalf?    For  I  have  been  accused  with- 

canse,  and  the  king  is  angry." 

I.  The  first  of  his  friends  excused  himself  unmediately ;  say- 
[that  he  could  not  go  with  him  on  account  of  other  busi- 
The  second  accompanied  him  to  the  door  of  the  hall 

istice ;  there  he  turned  round  and  went  back,  throngh  fear 
Ihe  angry  judge,  lltie  thurd,  on  whom  he  had  least  depend- 
[went  in,  spoke  for  him,  and  testified  so  fully  to  his  inno- 

g,  that  the  judge  dismissed  him  unharmed. 
1.  Man  has  three  friends  in  this  world.    How  do  they  be- 
te in  the  hour  of  death,  when  God  calls  him  to  judgment? 
|.  The  gold,  the  friend  he  loves  best,  leaves  him  first,  and 

not  go  with  hun.  His  relations  and  friends  attend  him 
the  gate  of  the  grave,  and  return  to  thehr  homes.    The 

i,  of  whom  in  life  he  took  least  heed,  is  represented  by  his 
(d  works.    They  attend  nim  to  the  throne  of  the  Judge ; 

go  before  hun,  plead  for  him,  and  find  morcy  and  grace 
[hun. 


78 


TBK    tfrrlKD   RRADSJI. 


29.   SOMQ  OF  TUB  EaILROAD. 


Brakk,   a   place   overgrown 

vrith  fom,  a  thicket. 
AiiiVK'nvcT,    n    channel    for 

carrying  water,  supported 

bj«8oaie  atmcture. 
l(f  ar'oin,  the  water's  edge,  the 

shore. 


Mould,  fine,  soft  earth. 
Goal,  the  point  set  to  aniT; 

at,  the  end  of  the  journoj. 
Ex-PAN'siON,  the  state  of  beiij 

expanded  or  btretched  onij 
Geasb'lxss,  without  a  stopo 

pause. 


*^:aT'.r.Tr.,TLi--,„ 


1.  rpHROTTGH  the  monld  and  through  the  clajj 
JL  Through  the  com  and  through  the  hay, 
By  the  margin  of  the  lake. 
O'er  the  river,  through  the  brake. 
O'er  the  bleak  and  dreary  moor, 
On  we  hie  with  screech  and  roar  1 

Splashing!  flashing! 
Crashing!  dashing! 

2.  Over  ridges. 
Gullies,  bridges ! 
By  the  bubbling  rill, 

And  mill — 
Highways,  byways, 
Hollow  hill— 


BONO  OF  THB  RAtLROAD. 


It 


Jumping — bomping— 
Booking — roaring 

Like  forty  thoasaud  giants  snoHugl 
B7  the  lonelj  hat  and  mansion, 
By  the  ocean's  wide  expansion — 
Where  the  factory  chimnej    smoke, 
Where  the  fonodry  bellows  croak — 
Dash  along  1 
Slash  along  I 
Crash  along ! 
Flash  along ! 
On  I  on  t  with  a  jump, 
And  a  bomp, 
And  a  roll  I 
Hies  the  fire-fiend  to  its  destined  goal! 

t.  Over  moor  and  over  bog, 
On  we  fly  with  ceaseless  jog ; 
Every  instant  something  new, 
No  sooner  seen  than  lost  to  view ; 
Now  a  tavern — now  a  steeple — 
Now  a  crowd  of  gaping  people — 
Now  a  hoUow — now  a  ridge — 
Now  a  cros^way — now  a  bridge— 
Grumble,  stumble, 
Bumble,  tumble — 
Church  and  steeple, 
Qaping  people — 
Quick  as  thought  are  lost  to  dew  I 
Every  thing  that  eye  can  survey, 
Turns  hurly-buriy,  topsy-turvy  I 
Each  passenger  is  thnmp'd  and  shaken. 
As  physio  is  when  to  be  taken. 

4.  By  the  foundry,  past  the  forge. 

Through  the  plain,  and  mountain  gcnrge, 
Where  cathedral  rears  its  head, 
Wlwre  repose  the  silent  dead ! 


-"^gSk^k- 


80 


THK  TIIIKD   KRADRR. 


Monnmcnts  amid  the  grass 

Flit  lilce  spectres  as  yoa  pass  I 

If  to  hail  a  friend  inclined — 

Whisk  I  whirr  I  ka-HSwash  I— he's  lefc  boLin 

Rnmble,  tumble,  all  the  day, 

Thus  we  pass  the  hours  away. 


80.  ViOTOEINUB. 


pRi>-n'oiBN-oT,  adviuicement, 
improyement  gained. 

Ez-PLAN'A-'ro-RT,  Containing 
explanation. 


To  EX-AS'PER-ATB,  tO  XOX,  tO| 

provoke. 
Ad-iiin'is-t£rkd,     managed,! 
supplied. 


Do  not  my  pemouneed  tor  pronouneed  ;  peifeuion  impn^ftuiimi  rtipttji 
ihet(melyqfth»plae$fi>tn»p0(i/orth»mmetUy<ifth«plaet. 

TTIOTOBINTJS,  a  celebrated  orator,  had  been  professor  o 
V  rhetoric  at  Borne ;  he  had  passed  his  life  in  the  stndyt 
the  liberal  sciences,  and  had  attained  a  great  proficiency  in  i 
of  them.  He  had  read,  examined,  and  explained  ahnost 
the  writings  of  the  ancient  philosophers,  and  had  had  tin 
honor  of  instmcting  all  the  most  distinguished  of  the  Bos 
senators. 

2.  He  had,  in  fine,  foiiowed  his  profession  so  sncces 
that  a  statue  had  been  erected  to  his  honor  in  a  public  sqnanj 
of  Borne,  a  distinction  then  considered  the  highest  that 
could  attain.    Yet  he  was  still  a  pagan,  an  adorer  of  idoltl 
and  not  only  that,  but  he  employed  all  his  eloquence  in  pc^| 
Buading  others  to  adore  them  as  he  did. 

8.  What  extraordinary  grace  did  it  require  to  touch  anjl 
convert  such  a  heart !  Behold  the  means  which  Qod  employdl 
hi  doing  so.  Yictorinns  began  to  read  the  Holy  Scripturc^l 
and  having  for  some  time  applied  himself  to  that  study,  toj 
gether  with  other  books  explanatory  of  the  Christian  religioij 
he  said  one  day  to  St.  Simplician :  "  I  have  sometUng  to 
you  which  will  interest  you  very  much :  I  am  a  Christian  "-I 


TIOTORlNin. 


PBR-ATE,  to  TWt,  tol 


\o  not  believe  a  word  of  it,"  replied  the  Saint,  "  nor  ghall 
^lieve  yon,  until  I  see  you  in  the  church  where  the  faithful 
[wont  to  assemble." 
"  What  then,"  exclaimed  Yictorinns,  "  is  it  only  within 
iDclosure  of  four  walls  that  one  is  a  Ohristian  f"  So  it 
^t  on  for  some  time,  as  often  as  Yictorinus  protested  that 
fM  a  Christian,  Simpliciati  made  him  the  same  reply,  and 
other-  always  put  it  off  with  a.  laugh  and  a  Jest. 
The  truth  was,  that  he  feared  to  exasperate  his  pagan 
^uds,  \t.  their  anger  and  opposition  would  be  sure  to  crush 
i;  if  once  called  forth,  and  this  rislc  he  could  not  bring  hbn- 
to  incur. 
Bnt  after  a  time  courage  and  generosity  were  given  him 
fm  above  because  of  his  close  application  to  the  study  of 
Sgion,  and  the  docility  with  which  he  opened  his  heart  to  its 
^ths,  and  he  became  convinced  that  it  would  be  an  enormous 
10  to  blush  for  believing  the  mysteries  of  Jesus  Christ, 
^ile  appearing  to  glory  in  the  sacrilegious  superstitions  oJF 
^anism. 

1*7.  No  sooner  did  he  obtain  this  conviction  than  he  hastened 
I  tell  St.  Simplician,  at  a  time,  too,  when  that  holy  man  was 
St  expecting  him :  "  Let  us  go  to  the  church,"  said  he,  "  I 
resolved  to  show  myself  a  Christian,  nor  content  myself 
nger  with  being  one  in  heart."    Simplician,  transported  with 
f,  immediately  took  him  to  the  church,  aad  had  his  name 
Itered  on  the  list  of  those  who  demanded  baptism. 
1 8.  All  the  city  of  Eome  was  struck  with  admiration  and 
tonishment ;  and  the  hearts  of  the  faithful  were  filled  with 
ly,  because  of  the  celebrity  and  high  reputation  of  that  great 
|an.    At  length  the  happy  day  arrived  when  he  was  to  make 
profession  of  faith,  in  order  to  be  baptized. 
9.  It  was  then  the  custom  in  the  Roman  church  to  make 
Ills  profession  hi  a  regular  foiciula  of  words  which  the  cate- 
lomen  learned  by  heart,  and  pronounced  aloud  before  all  the 
Boplo.    The  priests,  through  respect,  would  have  waived  this 
istom,  and  permitted  Yictorinus  to  make  his  profession  in 
ivate,  a  privilege  which  was  sometimes  granted  to  timid  per- 
ms ;  but  Yictorinus  declined,  declaring  that  he  would  pro- 


THE  THIltD   liKADRR. 


claim  alond,  in  presence  of  the  whole  assembly,  his  belief] 
those  doctrines  which  were  to  gaide  him  to  endless  happine; 

10.  No  sooner  had  he  appeared  in  the  tribune  than  a  suddj 
transport  of  joy  seized  all  hearts,  and  nis  name  was  echo* 
aloud  from  month  to  month,  and  although  each  one  restraioij 
his  joyful  emotion  through  respect  for  the  sanctity  of  the  plai 
and  the  sacrament  about  to  be  administered,  yet  all  arouiJ 
was  heard  the  murmured  exclamation :  It  %»  Victorintia!  Il\ 
Victorinus! 

11.  But  every  sound  was  speedily  hushed,  in  order  to 
mit  him  to  speak ;  whereupon,  he  with  holy  fervor,  repeatf 
in  a  clear,  distinct  voice,  his  belief  in  the  truths  which  fon 
the  basis  of  our  faith.  Willingly  would  the  people  have  take] 
him  and  carried  him  around  in  triumph,  for  every  heart  ovej 
flowed  with  the  joy  of  beholdmg  him  a  Christian. 

12.  This  splendid  conversion  had  great  consequences, 
when  St.  Augustine  was  informed  of  it  by  St.  Simplician,  1 
acknowledged  that  he  felt  strongly  moved  to  follow  the  cxd 
pie  of  Yictorinus ;  this  intention  he  soon  after  carried  inlj 
execution  under  the  ministry  of  St.  Ambrose,  to  whom 
Simplician  had  been  a  father  from  his  baptism. 


Em'a-nat-in6,  issuing,  or  floi 
ing  from. 


31.  Guardian  Anoels. 

Sub-ser'vi-ent,  serviceable. 
Wayward,  unruly,  perverse, 

Do  not  say  moles  for  moulds. 

1.  rVH.  I  he  may  brave  life's  dangers, 
\J  In  hope  and  not  in  dread, 
Whose  mother's  prayers  are  lighting 

A  halo  round  his  head. 
For  wheresoe'er  he  wander. 

Through  this  cold  world  and  dark. 
There  white-wiug'd  angels  follow. 

To  guard  life's  wayward  bark 

2.  Go,  let  the  scoffer  call  it 

A  shadow  and  a  dream. 


OUABDIAM  ANGELS. 


88 


3sembly,  his  belief] 
to  endless  happine 
tribune  than  a  suddJ 
iis  name  was  echo 
h  each  one  restrain 
I  sanctity  of  the  plaJ 
;ered,  yet  all  arouij 
!  ia  VictorimisI  III 

lied,  in  order  to 
loly  fervor,  repeat«| 
e  truths  which  fon 
tie  people  have  takej 
for  every  heart  ova 
hristian. 
tt  consequences, 
)y  St.  Simplician,  I 
i  to  follow  the  cxi-tii 
n  after  carried  loll 
brose,  to  whom 
)tism. 


Those  meek,  subservient  spuritsf 
Are  nearer  than  we  deem. 

Think  not  they  visit  only 
The  bright,  enraptured  eye, 

Of  some  pure  sainted  martyr, 
Prepared  and  glad  to  die ; 


NO,  issuing,  or  floi 
1. 

I. 

jgers, 

ighting 


d  dark, 

ow, 

rk 


Or  that  the  poet's  fancy. 
Or  the  painter's  magic  skill. 

Creates  a  dream  of  beauty, 
And  moulds  a  work  at  will 


84 


THE   TUIBD    UKADUB. 


( 


8.  They  live,  they  wander  round  xu, 

Soft  resting  on  the  cloud, 
Although  to  human  vision, 

The  sight  be  disallowed. 
They  are  to  the  Almighty 

What  rays  are  to  the  sun, 
An  emanating  essence, 

From  the  great  finpemal  One. 
4.  They  bend  for  prayers  to  listen, 

They  weep  to  witness  crimes. 
They  watch  for  holy  moments. 

Good  thoughts,  repentant  times; 
They  cheer  the  meek  and  hnmble. 

They  heal  the  broken  heart. 
They  teach  the  wavering  spirit 

From  earthly  ties  to  part. 
6.  Unseen  they  dwell  among  us, 

As  when  they  watch  below, 
In  spiritual  anguish. 

The  sepulchre  of  woe. 
And  when  we  pray,  though  feeble 

Our  orisons  may  be. 
They  then  are  our  companions. 

Who  pray  eternally. 


82.  Thb  Bbsxtbbbotion  of  the  Body. 


In-ook-ceiv'a-blk,  not  to 

conceived. 
Cor-rup'tion,  decay. 


Mont'DKR,  to  rot.  Im-pas'si-blb,  not  subject 

Es-tab'lishxd,  fixed. 
Be-sus'ci-tatb,  to  bring  to  life. 
Om-mip'o-tence,  unlimited 
power. 

Oive  0  itg  proper  sound.    Do  not  say  cotuerlation  for  eoiuolatkn  ;  fg 
for  together;  t'o-eate  for  to  enate. 

IT  is  an  article  of  fdth  <  'rit  our  body  shall  one  day  rise  agab 
All  men  shall  dio,  and  they  shall  rise  agam  with  the  8bd 
bodies  they  Had  in  this  life.    The  body,  laid  in  the  earth,  sh 


THE   RKSUKRKCmON   OF  THE   BODY. 


85 


drongh  the  process  of  corruption,  and  moulder  into  dust ; 

rhat  changes  soever  it  may  have  undergone,  its  ashes  shall 

[day  be  gathered  together  and  reanimated  by  the  breath 

bd.    Life  is  but  a  dream,  and  death  a  sleep;  but  the 

rection  will  be  the  beginning  of  a  life  which  shall  never 

"  The  day  will  come,"  said  Jesus  Christ,  "  when  aU  who 
the  grave  shall  hear  the  voice  of  the  Son  of  God,  and 
who  have  done  good  works,  shall  rise  and  live  forever ; 
they  who  have  done  evil  shall  rise  to  be  condenmed." 
a  moment,"  says  St.  Paul,  "  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  at 
[sound  of  the  last  trumpet,  the  dead  shall  arise  to  die  no 
." 

That  resurrection  shall  be  general ;  all  shall  arise,  the 

it  and  the  small,  the  just  and  the  wicked,  they  who  have 

before  us  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  they  who  are 

on  the  earth,  they  who  shall  come  after  us,  all  shall  die, 

rise  agam  at  the  last  day  with  the  same  bodies  they  had 

this  life. 

It  is  God  who  will  work  this  prodigy  by  his  Omnipotence. 
[  he  has  drawn  all  things  from  nothln^r  by  his  will  alone,  so 
^11  he  with  as  much  ease,  gather  together  our  scattered 
ibers,  and  reunite  them  with  our  souls.  It  is  not  more 
Icdt  for  the  Afanighty  to  reanimate  our  bodies  than  it  was 
I  hun  to  create  them.  Nay,  ve  have  under  our  eyes,  every 
r,  a  figure  of  this  resurrection. 

,  Are  not  the  trees,  as  it  were,  dead  during  the  wmter, 
do  they  not  appear  to  resuscitate  in  the  spring?  The 
^in  and  other  seed  which  is  cast  into  the  earth,  decays  there- 
f  only  to  come  forth  again  fairer  than  at  first :  it  is  the  same 
p  our  body ;  which,  like  a  seed,  is  laid  in  the  earth  for  a 
Bon,  to  come  forth  again  full  of  life. 
The  bodies  of  the  just  shall  not  then  be  solid,  heavy,  and 
:^T)tible,  as  they  now  are ;  but  they  shall  shine  like  the  sun, 
fhall  be  free  from  all  sorts  of  pain  and  inconvenience,  full 
-  sf  rength  and  agility,  such  as  was  the  body  of  our  Lord 

his  resurrection, 
p.  The  just,  who  are  hi«  children,  sanctified  by  his  grace, 


86 


THB  THIRD   KEADKK. 


nDited  and  incjrporated  with  him  by  faith,  shall  arise 
onto  himself;  Jesus  Christ  shall  transform  theu"  mean  andi 
ject  bodies,  and  render  them  like  nnto  to  his  own — glori(j 
and  impassible. 

8.  The  body,  which  htis  had  its  share  in  the  good  done] 
the  soul  while  they  were  joined  together,  shall  participate  i 
in  its  happiness.    The  wicked  shall,  indeed,  rise  again, 
their  bodies  shall  have  none  of  these  glorious  qualities ;  tl^ 
shall  arise,  but  only  to  be  given  up  to  torments  endless  in  tb 
duration,  and  inconceivable  in  their  greatness. 

9.  "  AH  the  multitude  of  those  who  sleep  in  the  dust  oft 
earth,"  says  one  of  the  prophets,  "  shall  awake,  some  for  1 
eternal,  and  others  for  endless  ignominy  and  disgrace." 

What  a  spectacle  shall  then  meet  our  eyes  I  what  sentimemj 
will  arise  in  our  hearts,  when  we  hear  the  sound  of  the  tm 
pet,  and  when  that  dreadful  voice  shall  echo  over  the  eartlj 
"  Arise,  ye  dead  I  and  come  to  judgment  I" — ^when  we  sh 
see  all  mankind  assemble,  without  any  other  distinctioA  tb 
that  made  by  their  own  works  I 

10.  In  the  reign  of  Antiochus,  the  seven  young  Mac^abe( 
and  their  mother  generously  suffered  the  most  cruel  tortneoij 
rather  than  violate  the  law  of  God,  because  they  hoped  i 
the  resurrection.  The  first  had  his  tongue  cut  out  and  til 
skin  torn  off  his  head,  and  he  being  still  alive  he  was  cas*  inij 
a  caldron  over  a  huge  fire.  The  second,  when  expu'ing,  sa 
to  the  king :  "  You  now  put  us  to  death ;  but  the  Rule" 
the  world  shall  one  day  raise  us  up  to  life  everlasting." 

11.  The  third  said  with  confidence :  "  I  have  received  tb«!si 
members  from  Heaven,  but  I  now  hold  them  as  nothing 
defence  of  the  laws  of  God,  because  I  hope  that  they  slitl 
be  one  day  restored  to  me."    The  fonrtkoij^^e  in  these  tennsl 
"  It  is  better  for  us  to  be  slam  for  obeying  God,  than  to  pr«| 
serve  oar  lives  by  disobeying  him ;  we  hope  that  in  the  resnrj 

ection,  God  will  render  glorious  these  bodies  which  we  w| 
ceived  from  him." 

12.  The  others  marafested  sunilar  courage  and  intrepidit;,! 
Nevertheless,  the  youngest  still  remained ;  and  Antiochus  txm 
to  shake  his  purpose  by  caresses  and  the  hope  of  reward ;  lul 


A   STORY  OF   A    Mf)NK. 


87 


lent  him  to  his  mother,  hoping  that  she  'would  persuade 

sacrifice  to  the  idols. 

But  that  generous  mpther  said  to  her  son ;  "  Look  up 

[aven!  raise  thine  eyes  to  God,  who  hath  created  all 

B,  and  thou  shalt  not  fear  these  torments,  but  will  follow 

rethren  to  death  I"    Antiochus,  more  than  ever  enraged, 

\d  out  all  his  wrath  on  the  boy,  and  caused  the  mothe 

Icrgo  the  same  torments  as  her  sons. 


33.  A  Story  of  a  Monk. 


z,  a  member  of  a  religious 

mnity  of  men. 
3'ter,  a  convent  or  mon- 
tery  inhabited  by  nuns  or 
}nkc. 

^OT,  the  head  of  a  commu- 
^y  of  monks. 


Stu'oi-ous,  given  to  books  or 

learning. 
CnRON'i-cLE,    to    record,    to 

write  down. 
Cuu'ci-Fix,  an  image  of  our 

Saviour's  body  fastened  to 

a  cross. 


tANY  years  ago,  there  dwelt  fai  a  cloister  a  monk 

named  Urban,  who  was  remarkable  for  an  earnest  and 

rat  frame  of  mind  beyond  his  fellows,  and  was  therefore 

isted  with  th»  key  of  the  convent  library.    He  was  a 


88 


TUB  TIIIKD   UKADKB. 


carefol  guardian  of  its  contents,  and,  besides,  a  stndionsi 
of  its  learned  and  sacred  volumes.    One  day  he  read  iaj 
Epistles  of  St.  Peter  the  words,  "  One  day  is  with  the '. 
as  a  thousand  years,  and  a  thousand  years  as  one  day ;"  | 
this  saying  seemed  impossible  in  his  eyes,  so  that  he 
many  an  hour  in  musing  over  it. 

2.  Then  one  morning  it  happened  that  the  monk  desceil 
from  the  library  into  the  cloister  garden,  and  there  he  saJ 
little  bird  perched  on  the  bough  of  a  tree,  singing  sweetly,  ( 
a  nightingale.  The  bird  did  not  move  as  the  monk  apprt^ 
ed  her,  till  he  came  quite  close,  and  then  she  flew  to  anotlj 
bough,  and  again  anotber,  as  the  monk  pursued  her. 
singing  the  same  sweet  song,  the  nightingale  flew  on ;  andi 
monk,  entranced  by  the  sound,  followed  her  on  out  of  I 
garden  into  the  wide  world. 

3.  At  last  he  stopped,  and  turned  back  to  the  cloister ;  I 
every  thing  seemed  changed  to  him.  Every  thing  had  be 
larger,  more  beautiful,  and  older, — ^the  buildings,  the  ga 
and  in  the  place  of  the  low,  humble  cloister  church,  a  lol 
minster  with  three  towers  reared  its  head  to  the  sky. 
seemed  very  strange  to  the  monk,  indeed  marvellous ;  bntj 
walked  on  to  the  cloister  gate  and  timidly  rang  the  bell, 
porter  entirely  unknown  to  him  answered  his  summons,  i 
drew  back  in  amazement  when  he  saw  the  monk. 

4.  The  hitter  went  in,  and  wandered  through  the  chu 
gazing  with  astonishment  on  memorial  stones  which  he  mi 
remembered  to  have  seen  before.  Pr^ently  the  brethrentj 
the  cloister  entered  the  church ;  but  all  retreated  when  tli^ 
saw  the  strange  figure  of  the  monk.  The  abbot  only  (bnti 
his  ubbot)  stopped,  and  stretching  a  cm^sifiz  before  him,  (I 
claimed,  "  In  the  name  of  Christ,  who  art  thou,  spirit  or  ngj 
tal  ?  And  what  dost  thou  seek  here,  conung  from  the  dei 
among  us,  the  living?" 

5.  The  monk,  trembling  and  tottering  like  an  old  man,  ( 
bis  eyes  to  the  ground,  and  for  the  first  time  became  avii 
that  a  long  silvery  beard  descended  from  his  chin  over  I 
girdle,  to  which  was  still  suspended  the  key  of  the  libp 
To  the  monks  around  th'i  stranger  seemed  some  maryelloi 


THE  DILATOKT  SCHOLAR. 


89 


Eirance ;  and,  with  a  mixtnre  of  awe  and  admiration,  they 
to  the  chair  of  the  abbot.    There  he  gave  to  a  young 
the  key  of  the  library,  who  opened  it,  and  brought  out  a 
Inicle  wherein  it  was  written,  that  three  hundred  years  ago 
jmonk  Urban  had  disappeared,  and  no  one  knew  whither 
gone. 

"  Ah,  burd  of  the  forest,  was  it  then  thy  song?"  said  the 

Urban,  with  a  sigh.    "  I  followed  thee  for  scarce  three 

ites,  listening  to  thy  notes,  and  yet  three  hundred  years 

passed  away  1    Thou  hast  sung  to  me  the  song  of  eter- 

which  I  could  never  before  learn.    Now  I  know  it ;  and, 

myself,  I  pray  to  God  kneeling  in  the  dust.''  With  these 

he  sank  to  the  ground,  and  his  spirit  ascended  to  heaTen. 


34.  The  Dilatoby  Soholab. 


jin'obb,  to  delay,  to  be  dil- 
Itory. 
iPbo-test',  to  declare. 


Satoh'el,  a  little  bag  used  by 

schoolboys. 
At'las,  a  book  of  maps. 


ononnoe  distinctly.    Do  not  ^j  breakm  for  breaking;  nothm  foi 
;  plmfin  iatplaymg. 

OH  I  where  is  my  hat?  it  is  taken  away. 
And  my  shoestrii^  aB«  all  in  a  knot  1 
I  can't  find  a  thing  wMprit  should  be  to-day. 
Though  I've  hunteppivcry  spot. 

|.  My  slate  and  my  pencil  nowhere  can  be  found. 
Though  I  placed  them  as  tafe  as  could  be  ; 
While  my  books  and  my  maps  are  all  scatter'd  around. 
And  hop  about  just  like  a  flea. 

Do,  Bacbel,  just  look  for  my  atlas  upstairs  j 

My  Virgil  is  somewhere  there,  too  ; 
And,  sister,  brush  down  these  troublesome  hairs, — 

And,  brothtr,  just  fasten  my  shoo. 


90 


TUS  THIRD  BEADKR. 


A.nd,  mother,  bog  father  to  write  an  excuse ; 

But  stop— he  will  only  say  "  Na," 
And  go  on  with  a  smile  and  keep  reading  the  news, 

While  every  thing  bothers  me  so 


6.  Sif  iwwibcl  is  heavy  and  ready  to  fall ; 
1  bis  o(d  pop-gun  is  breaking  my  map ; 
I'll  have  nordng  to  do  with  the  pop-gun  or  ball,- 
Therc's  no  piaying  for  such  a  poor  chap ! 

6.  The  town-clock  will  strike  in  a  minute,  I  fear ; 
Then  away  to  the  foot  I  must  sink : — 
^here,  look  at  my  history,  tumbled  down  here  t 
And  my  algebra  cover'd  with  ink ! 


35.  Spanish  EysNiNO  Htmit. 

Wva'kt,  tbed,  fatigued.   Watoh-firb,  a  fire  used  as  a  sig 

Sound  the  aspirated  h.    Do  not  say  $ailor  zim  for  sailor'*  hj/mn  i  /roil 
if  for  from  his  ;  foutiiun  sealing  tovfoxoU  utuecHmg. 

1.  'ft/rOTHEB  I  now  let  prayer  and  music, 
ITL  Meet  in  love  on  earth  and  sea  I 
Now,  sweet  mother  I  may  the  weary, 
Turn  from  this  cold  world  to  thee  I 


CHRIST  STTLLINO  TliJC  TRMPKST. 


91 


d.  From  the  wide  and  restless  watera, 
Hear  the  sailor's  hymn  arise ; 
From  his  watch-fire  'mid  the  mountains, 
Lo !  to  thee  the  shepherd  cries ! 

8.  Yet,  when  thus  full  hearts  find  voices^ 
If  o'erburden'd  souls  there  be, 
Dark  and  sOent  in  their  angolsh, 
Aid  those  captives,  set  them  fteet 

4.  Tonch  them,  every  fonnt  unsealing, 
Where  the  firozeu  tears  lie  deep ; 
Thou,  the  mother  of  all  sorrows, 
Aid,  oh !  aid  to  pray  and  weep  I 


36.  Christ  stxlmno  thk  Trmpest. 

^t  the  Hhip  wan  now  in  the  niidi^t  of  the  Heu,  to<w«d  with  waves;  tot 
ad  was  contrary." — Matthew  xiv.  24. 


[lows,  waves. 
feATH'tEss,  out  of  breath. 


Kioht'e-ous,  Jnst,  npright. 
Man'dates,  commands. 


|nounce  each  toord  distinctly.    Do  not  say  rottin  'igh  an'  dark  foi 
'  high  and  dark. 

1.  THEAB  was  within  the  tossing  bark, 
J-    When  stormy  winds  grew  lond ; 
And  waves  came  rolling  high  and  dark. 
And  the  tail  mast  was  bow'd. 

9.  And  men  stood  breathleBs  in  their  dread, 
And  baffled  lu  their  skill— 
But  One  was  there,  who  roBe  and  said 
To  the  wUd  sea,  "  Be  stUI  I" 

3   And  the  wind  ceased— it  ceased  1— tlifl).  word 
Pass'd  through  tlie  glnora?  sky ; 
The  troubled  billows  know  tlielr  Lord, 

And  sank  beneath  his  eyu.  . 


% 


TilK  TllIRO   RKADKR. 

i.  And  Blumber  settled  on  the  deep, 
And  silence  on  the  blast, 
As  when  the  '  'ghtcoos  fall  asleep, 
When  dea    s  fierce  throes  are  past. 

6.  Thon  that  diust  rnle  the  angry  hour, 
And  tame  the  tempest's  mood — 
Oh  I  send  thy  spirit  forth  in  power, 
O'er  oar  dork  souls  to  brood  I 

6.  Thou  that  didst  bov/  the  billow's  pride ! 
Thy  mandates  to  fulfil — 
Speak,  speak,  to  passion's  raging  tide, 
Speak  and  say — "  PcLce,  be  still  I" 


87.  Holiday  Children. 


Christ'mas,  the  day  our  Sa- 
viour was  bom. 

Mu-se'um,  a  repository  of  cu- 
riosities. 


CoAx'iNO-LT,  flatteringly. 
Scutoh'eon,  the    ground  I 

which  a  coat  of  omi 

pamted. 


ONE  of  the  most  pleasing  sights  at  thie  festive  season,  isj 
group  of  boys  and  girls  returned  from  school.  Go  wt! 
you  will,  a  cluster  of  their  joyous  chubby  faces  presents  ih 
selves  to  our  notice.  In  the  streets,  or  elsewliere,  our  elb 
are  constantly  assailed  by  some  eager  urchin  whose  eyes  jij 
peep  beneath  to  get  a  nearer  view. 

2.  I  am  more  delighted  in  matching  the  vivacious  workid 
of  their  ingenuous  countenances  at  these  Christmas  shows,  titJ 
at,  the  sights  themselves. 

3.  From  the  first  joyous  huzzas,  and  loud-blown  horns  wli 
announce  their  arrival,  to  the  faint  attempts  at  similar : 
on  their  return,  I  am  interested  in  these  youngsters. 

4.  Observe  the  line  of  chaise's  with  their  swarm-like  loai 
hurrying  to  tender  and  exulting  parents,  the  sickly  to  be  chd 


HOLIDAY    CiniJ)KK!l7. 


93 


merotis  demands;  her 
'^r  in,  her  patience 
trn  and  toss  oror 
aoop  is  their  choice, 


the  strong  to  be  amused ;  in  a  few  mornings  you  shall 

lem,  new  clothes,  warm  glores,  gathering  around  their 

jer  at  every  toy-shop,  claiming  the  promised  bat,  hoop, 

[or  marbles;  mark  her  kind  sm  ' ^  at  their  ecstasies ;  her 

BQt  shake  of  the  head  at  t 

jual  yielding  as  they  couxt' 

their  whims  and  clamor  >v 

slaythings,  as  now  a  sword,  u 

like  their  elders,  the  possesBion  of  one  bauble  does  but 

[e  them  sigh  for  another. 

View  the  fond  father,  his  pet  little  gkl  by  the  hand,  his 

walking  before,  on  whom  lus  prond  eye  rests,  while  am- 

^us  views  float  over  his  mind  for  them,  and  make  hun  bnt 

attentive  to  their  repeated  inquiries ;  while  at  the  musemii 

|h6  pictm'e-gallery,  his  explanations  are  interrupted  by  the 

ture  of  discovering  that  his  cliildren  are  already  well  ac- 

linted  with  the  diiferent  subjects  exhibited. 

p.  At  no  season  of  the  year  are  their  holidays  so  replete 

pleasures ;  the  expected  Ohristmas  box  from  grand-papa 

grand-mamma;    plum-pudding   and  snap-dragon,   with 

adman's-bnff  and  forfeits ;  perhaps  to  witness  a  jnvenUe  play 

Lcarsed  and  ranted;  galantee-show  and  drawing  for  twelftb- 

^e ;  besides  Ohristmas  gambols  in  abundance,  new  and  old. 

I.  Even  the  poor  charity-boy  at  this  season  feels  a  transient 

^w  of  cheerfulness,  as  with  paJe  blue  face,  frost-nipped  hands^ 

~  thin  scant  clothes,  from  door  to  door  he  timidly  ^splays  the 

blotted  scutcheon  of  his  graphic  talents,  and  feels  that  the 

ice  bestowed  are  hia  own,  and  that  for  once  in  his  life  he 

i,y  taste  the  ofieiit-desired  tart,  or  spin  a  top  which  no  one 

snatch  from  him  in  capricious  tyranny. 


^  %r  '^ 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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11.25 


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2.2 

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HiolDgraphic 

Sciences 

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23  WIST  MAIN  STUIT 

WIBSTIt,N.Y.  MStO 

(716)  •72-4503 


v\ 


f:^ 


''^ 


PABT  SECOM 

A  WOED  TO  TEAOHEBS. 

I^  «•«  papa.  ^  „d  ™il  th,^  ^''• 
•«''  Je«o.  befo„  «™.»^  ^-•*  •'  toe  ^ 

» t  l-rf  for  tU.  ttd,  h^a^"^  *»**  *••«  -h 
QoMHom  OB  tie  8aU«it  of  th.  i 


r 


THE  DRBAM  OF  TBB  OBUSADKB. 


95 


1.  Thb  Dbbak  of  thb  Obusadeb. 


TTTHEN  OhriBtian  mendid 
YV    hear  aghast, 
The  soU  that  Christ  had 
trod 
Was  in  the  might  of  P&ynim 
men, 
Who  scorned  the  Son  of 
God} 

2.  Arose  there  then  through 
Ohiistendom 
One  aniver^  cry, 
To  wrest  that  land  from  snch 
ft  grasp- 
To  win  it  or  to  die. 


96 

THB  THIKD  READKR. 

8.  That  ciy  went  forth  through  Europe's  r. 
From  one  end  to  the  otherf 

^r;f„^5e  the  thunder'  voice 
That  naught  on  earth  can  smotW. 

*.  And  France's  fairest  chiTahy 

p3*T?«'»»*  at  that  loud  ci, 

I^mKormandytatoR.oyrc; 
If  one  tarried  in  his  halL 

*^*  ®T^n?  ^''^  ^  fast-flowing  Loir^ 
And  others  ftom  the  Rhone^     T* 

The  banks  of  the  Garonne.    '^^ 
«.  One  common  badge  they  aB  do 

ol^"^?^«''««»>hi«>n'db«lriit 
On  each  left  ann  and  breast. 

^*^FniS''^*^*Wood.redc««. 
Fpnused  as  for  ft  sign.         ^^ 

And  animating  an  ^.'IJ^t 
With  thoughts ,       Jestine. 

8.  And  day  by  day  they  fought  their  «>• 
StiU  o:;rards  from  thelel     ^  "^ 

With  <3auntless  constancy. 

*'  ^mn*^?^^^»oWeN8ht. 


^-^^^^ 


THB  DBBAM  OF  THB  OBDBADEB. 


97 


[2.  The  Dream  of  the  Obusadeb — carUintted, 

1.  One  early  morn,  the  aim  as  yet 

Was  scarcely  in  the  sliy, 
He  begg'd  the  priest  to  shrire  him  then, 
And  make  him  fit  to  die. 

2.  He  wished  to  take  the  sacrament 

As  soon  as  he  was  shriren, 
That  he  might  dare  to  meet  his  Qod 
With  hopes  to  be  foxgiren. 

8.  Now  all  did  manrel  at  his  words, 
For  he  was  fresh  and  well ; 
And  why  he  deemed  that  he  should  die^ 
No  mortal  man  conld  tell. 

4.  Bnt  good  Sir  Anselm  with  grave  uden 
Thus  spake— ''My  race  is  ran  1 
Ere  yonder  snn  shall  set  again, 
life's  jonraey  win  be  done. 

6.  My  friend,  Ingolram  of  St.  Pol, 
Who  fell  at  Maura's  fight. 
And  whom  we  all  lamented  so, 
Fve  seen  in  the  past  night. 

h.  This  very  night  he  came  to  me. 
And  stood  beside  my  bed ; 
'Twas  not'a  dream — ^I  was  awake, 
And  heard  each  word  he  said. 

t.  I  asked  him, '  Whither  comest  tho^ 
And  why  so  bright  and  fair?  ^ 

For  thou  wert  kQl'd  at  Maara, 
And  we  interr'd  thee  there.' 

8.  He  was  so  Inight  and  beantifnl, 
And  mild  each  placid  feature ; 


*,, 


98  TUB  IHIBD  BKADKB, 

He  was  not  like  a  mortal  man, 
Bat  some  angelic  creatnre. 

9.  He  answered  me,  'I  am  so  fair, 
And  beantiftd  and  bright, 
Because  my  dwelling  shineth  so 
With  aU-respIendent  light. 

10.  And  this  to  me  my  Qod  hath  giyen, 

Because  I  serf  ed  him  well ; 
for  laying  down  my  life  for  him 
Against  the  InfideL  ^ 

11.  And  it  hath  been  lereal'd  to  me,      \ 

That  snch  a  dwelling-place, 
Bat  br^hter  still,  awaiteth  thee, 
Throngh  God's  great  soTerdgn  gnm, 

13.  And  I  am  come  to  bring  to  thee 

These  tidings  glad  and  sweet ; 
Thy  dwelling  it  is  wondrons  fair- 
To-morrow  there  we  meet  I' " 

18.  Again  Ihey  went  to  fight  thdr  way 
gUJl  onwards  from  the  sea ; 
They  charged  upon  the  Infidel 
With  wonted  oonstam^. 

14.  The  Paynhn  men  advance  again, 

To  drive  them  to  the  sea. 
Bat  on  them  rosh'd  the  rednsross  men 
With  all  their  chiTahy. 

15.  And  when  the  day's  hard  strife  was  o'er, 

The  son  went  down  apace. 
The  good  Sk  Ansdm  he  was  missed 
At  his  aocostom'd  place.  . 

16.>'They  sought  him  on  the  battltf-field, 
They  found  him  'midst  the  dead : 
A  stone,  by  some  huge  engine  huri'd, 
Had  struck  him  on  the  httid. 


THB  LOBO'S  PBAYEB. 


99 


8.  Thb  Lobd'b  Pbatbb. 

[UR  Lord  hu  himself  taught  us  what  we  are  to  beg  of 
God,  and  the  order  in  which  it  is  to  be  asked.    He  has 

en  TonchsDtfed  to  draw  up  the  petition  which  we  are  to  pre- 

it  to  the  Father  in  his  name,  and  to  leave  ns  an  excellent 
of  prajer,  which  is  thence  called  The  LorcPa  Prayer. 

Jesaa  Ohrist,"  says  St.  Qyprian,  ''among  other  salutary 
|yice8  and  precepts  which  he  hath  given  to  his  people  in 

ier  to  gnide  them  to  salvation,  has  prescribed  a  formula  of 

Btyer,  to  the  end  that  we  may  be  the  more  readily  heard  by 
^e  Father,  by  addresnng  him  in  the  very  words  which  his 

on  hath  tai^t  ns. 

1 3.  "  Let  ns,  therefore,  V^j"  ^^dds  this  holy  doctor,  "  as 

'master  and  onr  God  hath  directed  ns;  that  prayer  mnst  be 

^eanng  to  God  which  comes  from  himself,  and  strikes  his  ear 

}ngh  the  words  of  Ohrist;  let  the  Father  recognize  in  onr 

lyer  the  words  of  his  divine  SoA. 

3.  "  Since  Jesus  Ok^t  is  onr  Advocate  with  his  I'sther,  kt 


■% 


«i^ 


■  *rSs;: 


?W    <:. 


100 


THE  TUIRD  UKADKB. 


OS  make  use  of  the  very  words  of  oar  Me^ator;  he 
US  that  the  Father  will  grant  whatever  is  asked  in  his 
how  mnch  more  willingly  if  asked,  not  only  in  his  name,| 
in  his  own  very  words!"    The  Ohurch,  accordingly, 
continual  nse  of  that  divine  prayer;  by  it  she  begins  and! 
all  her  offices;  she  introdnces  it  particularly  in  the  holyj 
rifice  of  the  mass.   The  faithftal  should  recite  it  daily,  mon 
and  evening,  and  recall  it  often  to  their  minds  thronghl 
course  of  the  day. 

4.  The  Lord's  Prayer  is  composed  of  a  short  preface,! 
seven  petitions  or  requests,  of  which  the  three  first  relattl 
God,  and  the  other  four  concern  ourselves;  it  contaimi 
that  we  can  desire  and  ask  of  God;  it  is  the  rule  by 
we  are  to  form  our  sentiments  and  our  desires.  Wei 
indeed,  make  use  of  other  words  in  our  prayers,  but  vej 
to  ask  nothing  of  God  save  what  is  contained  in  this  mo 
any  request  that  is  not  consistent  with  it  would  be  unwoil 
a  (Xbistian,  and  could  not  be  agreeable  to  God. 

5.  The  preface  consists  of  these  words:  "Our  Father,  \ 
art  in  heaven  ;"  Jesus  GhrLst  has  thrown  into  these  few  m 
all  that  is  most  capable  of  engaging  God  to  hear  us,  and| 
inspiring  within  ourselves  senthnents  of  respect,  confide 
and  love.  ^  . 

6.  We  call  God  our  Father,  for  so  has  Gmrist  instmctedj 
to  do.    God  is  indeed  our  father  by  creation,  smce  he 
given  us  life,  and  formed  us  to  his  own  image;  he  is  still 
our  father  by  the  grace  of  regeneration,  seeing  that  in  ^\ 
tism  lie  adopted  us  as  his  children  in  Christ  Jesus, 
sidef;"  says  the  Apostle  St.  John,  "what  love  the  Father! 
had  for  us,  cdnce  he  would  have  us  call^  his  children,  i 
really  be  sol"    "Because  ye  are  children,"  adds  St.  Fii 
"  God  has  sent  into  your  hearts  the  sjMt  of  his  Son,  i 
ffig  'My  Father,  My  Father P"    Oh,  name  full  of  sv 
ness  and  delight!  what  love,  what  gratitude,  and  what  i 
fidence  should  it  excite  in  your  heart  I 

7.  If  it  be  true  that  God  is  your  Father,  can  you  fear  tli 
your  prayer  will  be  ng'ected  when  you  remind  hiin  of  a  i 
by  whi(^  he  takes  pleasimre  hi  hearing  us  address  him  ? 


LBGEND  OF  THB  INFANT  JBBUS. 


lOj 


I  he  not  grant  to  a  child  who  prays  to  him,  after  he  has 
red  him  into  the  number  of  his  children  by  a  grace  which 
^pated  his  prayers  and  desires. 
Fear  only  that  by  yonr  disobedience  yon  may  render 
self  unworthy  to  be  called  the  child  of  Ood;  that  alone 
[obstruct  the  flow  of  his  grace  and  the  effect  of  your 
rers.  Each  of  us  says,  when  addressing  God:  "Our 
»  and  not  My  Faihetf  because  hayhig  all  the  sajne 
Bf,  and  expecting  ttom.  him  the  same  inheritance,  we 
jnot  only  to  pray  for  ourselyes,  but  for  all  the  faithful, 
are  our  brethren.  By  that  we  understand  that  it  is  not 
own  name  we  pray,  but  in  that  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  in 
^n  with  the  whole  body  of  his  Church,  whose  members 
re. 

We  add;  "  Who  art  in  heaven,"  for  although  God  is 

rhere  in  his  immensity,  we  neyertheless  consider  heaven 

lie  throne  of  his  glory;  it  is  in  heaven  that  he  puts  forth 

[his  magnificence,  and  reveab  himself  Mty  to  his  ikect 

liout  the  shadow  of  a  dond  to  obscure  his  brightness. 

to  heaven  that  we  ourselves  are  called;  "heaven  is  our 

itry,  and  the  inheritance  destined  for  us  by  our  Father. 

|ien  we  kneel,  then,  in  prayer,  let  us  raise  our  thoughts  and 

desires  to  heaven;  let  us  unite  with  the  society  of  blessc  ! 

^ts,  and  excite  in  our  hearts  the  hope  and  the  desire  of 

sessuig  God. 


4.  Lbobnd  of  THB  Infant  Jestth. 

1.  pOME,  chUdren,  all  whose  joy  it  ia 
V/  To  serve  at  holy  mass. 

And  hear  what  once,  in  days  of  faith. 
In  England  came  to  pass  I 

2.  It  chanced  a  priest  was  journeying 

Through  dark  and  gloomy  wood» 
And  there,  where  few  came  i)as8ing  by, 
A  lonely  chapel  stood. 


102  TRB  THIRD  BSADBB. 

8.  He  Btay'd  his  feet,  that  pilgrim  jHrieit, 
His  morning  mass  to  say, 
And  put  the  sacred  yestments  on 
Which  near  the  altar  lay. 

4.  Bat  who  shall  serve  the  holy  mass, 
For  all  is  silent  here? 
He  kneels,  and  there  in  patience  wait! 
The  peasant's  hour  of  prayer. 

6.  When  lo  I  a  child  of  wondrous  grace, 
Before  the  altar  steals. 
And  down  beside  the  lowly  priest, 
The  infant  beanty  kneels. 

6.  He  serres  the  maar;  his  voice  is  sweety 
lake  distant  mnsic  low, 
With  downcast  eye  and  ready  hand, 
*  And  footfaU  hnsh'd  and  slow. 

f .  "  Et  yerbnm  caro  factom  est,''  / 

He  lingers  till  he  hears. 
Then  turning  he  to  Mary's  shrine, 
In  glory  disappears. 

8.  So  round  the  altar,  children  dear. 
Press  gladly  in  God's  name. 
For  once  to  serve  at  holy  mass, 
The  Infant  Jesus  came. 


5.  Thb  Do-NoTHmos. 

THE  Do-Nothmgs  are  a  very  numerous  family :  some  mem- 
bers of  it  are  found  in  all  parts  of  the  country ;  and  there 
are  very  few  sdiools  in  which  some  of  them  are  not  in  attend- 
ancis  as  pupils.  They  are  known  by  their  slow  and  listleBS 
steps,  their  untidy  appearance,  and  the  want  of  animation  acd 


THE  00-NOTHINOt. 


108 


Brest  in  their  faces.    They  do  not  do  any  tUng,  whether 

9r]c  or  play,  with  a  hearty  goodrwill. 

1 2.  Their  hair  is  apt  to  be  in  disorder ;  their  hands  and  faces 

not  always  clean ;  their  clothes  look  as  if  they  had  been 

pat  on.    They  are  always  in  a  hnrry,  and  yet  always 

bhindhand.    They  are  sometimes  absent  from  school,  and 

BD  tardy;  bnt  for  erery  neglect  of  duty  they  always  havt 

Dme  sort  of  an  ezcose. 

8.  A  ghrl  of  this  family  gets  np  in  the  morning  late,  dresses 
Braelf  in  a  harry,  and  comes  down-stairs  a  little  oat  of  hamor 
[)m  the  feeling  that  she  has  began  the  day  wrong.    The 
lily  breakfast  is  oyer,  and  she  is  obliged  to  tisJce  hers  alone ; 
rhich  does  not  improve  her  temper.    She  knows  that  she  has 
French  lesson  to  learn  before  school ;  bnt  she  is  attracted 
|>y  a  new  pictnre-book  which  had  been  bronght  home  the  day 
Bfore  for  one  of  her  little  brothers,  and  she  takes  it  ap,  mean* 
Qg  only  to  look  oyer  the  pictares.   Bat  she  becomes  interest- 
in  the  story,  tarns  oyer  one  leaf  after  another,  and  at  last 
ne  o'clock  strikes  before  she  is  aware  of  it. 
4.  She  hnddles  on  her  shawl  and  bonnet,  and  hastens  to 
chool  as  fast  as  possible ;  bat  she  is  late  in  spite  of  her  harry, 
land  is  marked  for  tardiness.    It  takes  her  some  time  to  get 
[seated  at  her  desk,  and  to  recover  from  the  heat  and  flarry  of 
|comiog  to  school  so  fast.    She  at  first  proposes  to  learn  the 
{French  lesson,  which  she  ongV^  to  have  done  at  home;  bat 
[after  stadying  a  few  moments,  she  finds  some  leaves  missing 
[  from  her  cUctionary.    She  tries  to  borrow  one  from  a  neigh- 
bor, bat  in  vain ;  so  she  becomes  discoaraged,  and  thinks  she 
will  do  a  few  sams  in  arithmetic. 

6.  So  she  takes  oat  her  slate,  and  be^^  to  wash  it ;  spend- 
iig  mnch  more  time  in  this  process  than  is  necessary.  She 
tries  a  som  and  cannot  do  it,  and  thinks  it  the  fanlt  of  the 
peocQ.  So  she  proceeds  to  sharpen  that  with  great  delibera- 
tion, making  everybody  around  her  nneasy  with  the  disagree- 
able, grating  sound.  When  this  operation  is  over,  she  looks 
at  the  dock,  and  sees  that  it  will  soon  be  thne  to  recite  in 
geography,  of  which  she  has  not  learned  any  thing. 
6.  She  pats  np  her  slate,  pencil,  and  arithmetic,  and  takes 


104 


TIIR  TIIIKD  UKADKB. 


ont  her  geography  and  atlas.    By  the  time  these  are  op 
and  spread  before  her,  she  hears  a  band  of  mosio  ioi 
street    Her  seat  is  near  the  window,  and  she  wastes 
precious  minutes  in  looking  at  the  soldiers  as  they  paaal 
Bhe  has  hardly  made  any  progress  in  her  study  of  geog 
when  she  is  called  up  to  recite.    She  knows  very  little  of  I 
lesson,  girei  wrong  answers  to  the  questions  put  to  her,  i 
gets  a  bad  mark. 

t.  Soon  after  this,  the  chus  in  French  to  which  she  beloij 
goes  up  to  recite.    TUs  lesson  she  has  only  half  learned,  i 
she  blmiders  sadly  when  called  upon  to  answer.  She  goes 
to  her  desk  in  an  unhappy  state  of  mind,  and  takes  up 
arithmetic  once  more.    But  she  feels  dissatisfied  with  he 
and  cannot  fix  her  attention  upon  her  task.  She  comes  to  i 
conclusion  that  she  has  got  a  headache,  which  is  a  rery  ooi 
mon  excuse  with  her,  and  that  she  cannot  study.  So  she  p 
a  oorer  upon  one  of  her  books,  and  writes  a  note  to  one  of  1 
young  fHends  about  gohig  to  a  concert ;  and  when  this  is  onr] 
the  bell  for  dismissal  rings. 

8.  And  this  half  day  may  be  taken  as  a  fair  sample  of  tin] 
whole  school-life  of  Misi  Do-Nothing.  It  is  a  long  sucoesnoil 
of  lessons  half  learned,  of  sums  half  done,  of  blotted  copj^ 
books,  of  absences  and  tardinesses,  of  wasted  hours  and' 
lected  opportunities.    Most  of  the  annoyance  which  teadienl 
suffer  in  the  dischaige  of  their  duties,  comes  firom  boys  vAl 
girls  of  this  family.  They  haye  two  secnningly  opposite  traits:! 
they  are  always  idle  and  yet  always  restless.    They  moT6 
about  on  their  seats,  and  lean  upon  their  desks  in  a  great 
variety  of  postures.    They  talk  with  their  fingers ;  and  keep 
up  a  constant  whispering  and  buzzing  with  their  lips,  which  { 
disturbs  scholars  and  teachers  alike. 

9.  The  boys  are  very  expert  in  catching  flies,  and  moul^g  I 
pieces  of  paper  into  the  shape  of  boats  or  cocked  hats.  Tliej ' 
draw  figures  upon  their  slates,  and  scribble  upon  the  fly-leaTei 
of  their  books.  In  summer  they  are  alBicted  with  a  constsDt 
thirst,  and  in  winter  their  feet  and  hands  are  always  cold. 
Both  boys  and  girls  are  apt  to  be  troubled  with  drowsiness  in 
the  daytime ;  and  yet  they  are  very  reluctant  to  go  to  bed 


BBAUSfO  TIIIC  DAUOIITKB  OF  JAIRU8. 


105 


fen  the  proper  hoar  comei.  They  are  fond  of  laying  the 
lit  of  their  own  indolence  upon  the  weather ;  they  would 
re  learned  their  leison  if  it  had  not  been  lo  hot,  lo  cold,  or 
!  rainy. 

J 10.  There  ii  one  remarkable  pecnUarity  abont  tUs  family  i 
lery  boy  and  girl  that  chooeei  can  leare  it,  and  Johi  the  Do- 
Wethings ;  the  membeiv  of  which  are  alwayi  glad  to  wel- 
Ime  deserters  flrom  the  Do-Nothings.  The  boys  and  girls  of 
^e  Do-SometUng  family  are  always  bosy,  always  cheerfiil ; 
}rking  heartily  when  they  work,  and  playing  heartily  when 
|iey  play.  They  are  neat  in  their  appearance,  and  pnnctnal 
attendance  upon  school ;  erery  thing  is  done  in  proper  order, 
ad  yet  nothing  is  harried ;  they  are  the  Joy  of  tiieir  parents, 
ad  the  delight  of  their  teachers. 

11.  My  yonng  fHends  into  whose  hands  this  book  may  fall, 

which  of  these  two  famiUes  do  yoa  belong?    Remember 

liat  the  oseAilness  and  happhiess  of  your  whole  lires  depend 

^pon  the  answer  to  this  qaestion.  No  one  can  be  trnly  hi^y 

rho  is  not  oseftil ;  and  no  one  can  be  nseftal  who  is  idle,  care> 

and  negligent. 


6.  Hbalzno  TH8  Dauohtbb  of  Jaibub. 

1 .  pRESHLY  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  ete 
•1^  Stole  through  the  lattice,  and  the  dying  girl 
Felt  it  upon  her  forehead.    She  had  lain 
Since  the  hot  noontide  in  a  breathless  trance— 
Her  thin  pale  fingers  dasp'd  within  the  hand 
Of  the  heart-broken  Ruler,  and  her  breast. 
Like  the  dead  marble,  white  and  motionless. 

2.  The  shadow  of  a  leaf  lay  on  her  lips. 
And,  as  it  stirr'd  with  the  awakening  wind. 
The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes. 
And  her  slight  fii^^ers  moved,  and  heavily 
She  tum'd  upon  her  pillow.    He  was  there — 
The  same  loved  tireless  watcher,  and  she  look'd 
Into  his  face  until  her  sight  grew  dim 

6* 


106 


THIS  THIRD  READER. 


With  the  fast-falling  tears;  and,  with  a  sigh 
Of  tremnlons  weakness  mnrmnring  his  name, 
She  gently  drew  his  hand  npon  her  lips, 
And  kiss'd  it  as  she  wept.    The  old  man  sunk 
Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 
Of  the  rich  curtains  buried  up  Ms  face; 
And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 
Stirr'd  with  his  prayer,  but  the  slight  hand  he  held 


Had  ceased  its  pressure — and  he  could  not  hear, 
In  the  dead,  utter  silence,  that  a  breath 
Game  through  her  nostrils — and  her  temples  gave 
To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse — and,  at  her  mouth, 
He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  on  her  neck 
Liy  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  his  gaze 
Afibcd  with  its  deathly  stillness. 


HEALING  TUB   DAUQUTBK  OF  JAIKUS. 


107 


8  AU  was  still. 

The  echoing  vestibule  gave  back  the  slide 
Of  their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of  moonlight,  slanting  to  the  marble  floor, 
Lay  like  a  spell  of  silence  in  the  rooms, 
As  Jaims  led  them  on.    With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stair;  but  e'er  he  tonch'd 
The  latchet,  from  within  a  whisper  came, 
"  TrouMe  the  Master  not— for  she  is  dead  /" 
And  his  faint  hand  fell  nerveless  at  his  side. 
And  his  steps  falter'd,  and  his  broken  voice 
Choked  in  its  utterance; — ^but  a  gentle  hand 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  his  ear 
The  Saviour's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low, 
"  She  is  not  dead — hut  deepeth." 


4.  '  Like  a  form 

Of  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay— 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast. 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  hands. 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails. 
A  Ime  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips. 
And  in  her  nostrils  spiritually  tUn, 
The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life;  . 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly  tinted  skin 
Ban  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins; 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay, 
Matchmg  the  arches  penciled  on  her  brow. 

6.  Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,'  hid  her  small  round  ears 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polish'd  necb^  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'Twas  heavenly  beautiful.    The  Saviour  raised 
Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said, 
"  Maiden  f  Arise  !" — and  suddenly  a  flush 


108 


THB  THIRD   RBADEIU 


Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  through  her  cheek  the  rallied  color  ran; 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirr'd  in  the  linen  vesture;  and  she  clasp'd 
The  Sayiour's  hand,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance — ^abosbI 


7.  St.  Phh.tp  "Nebi  akb  tbb  Youth* 

ST.  Philip  Neri,  as  old  readmgs  say, 
Met  a  young  stranger  in  Bome's  streets  one  day ; 
And  being  ever  courteously  inclined 
To  give  young  folks  a  sober  turn  of  mind, 
He  fell  into  discourse  with  him ;  and  thus 
The  dialogue  they  held  comes  down  to  us. 

St.  Tell  me  what  brings  you,  gentle  youth,  to  Rome? 

F.  To  make  myself  a  scholar,  sir,  I  come. 

iSK.  And,  when  you  are  one,  what  do  you  intend  f 

Y.  To  be  a  priest,  I  hope,  sir,  in  the  end. 

St.  Suppose  it  so— what  have  you  next  in  view? 

T.  That  I  may  get  to  be  a  canon  too. 

St.  Well ;  ana  how  then  ? 

Y.  Why,  then,  for  aught  I  know, 

I  may  be  made  a  bishop. 

St.  Be  it  so— 

What  then? 

Y.  Why,  cardinal's  a  high  degree — 

And  yet  my  lot  it  possibly  may  be. 

St.  Suppose  it  was,  what  then? 

Y.  Why,  who  can  say 

But  I've  a  chance  of  being  pope  one  day  ? 

St.  Well,  having  worn  the  ntoe  and  red  hat, 
And  triple  crown,  what  follows  after  that? 

Y.  Kay,  there  is  nothing  further  to  be  sure. 
Upon  this  earth  that  wishing  can  procure ; 
When  I've  enjoy'd  a  dignity  so  high. 
As  long  as  Qod  shall  please,  then,  I  must  die. 


CONFIRMATION. 


109 


',.  What,  must  yoa  die,  fond  youth?  and  at  the  best 
)at  wish,  and  hope,  and  may  be  all  the  rest  I 
Take  my  advice — ^whatever  may  betide, 
Tor  that  which  most  be,  first  of  all  provide ; 
Dhen  think  of  that  which  may  be,  and  indeed, 
Then  well  prepared,  who  knows  what  may  succeed? 

jBat  you  may  be,  as  you  are  pleased  to  hope, 

I  Priest,  canon,  bishop,  cardinal,  and  pope. 


8.    OONFIBMATION. 

^UR  young  readers  have  learned  from  their  little  catechism, 
that  confirmation  is  the  sacrament  by  which  they  are  ele- 
cted to  the  dignity  of  soldiers  of  Jesus  Christ ;  that,  as  by 
aptism  they  were  made  children  of  God,  so  by  confirmation 
lieir  names  are  inscribed  in  the  army  of  the  faithful  followers 
ff  oar  divine  Lord,  and  they  receive  strength  to  battle  agunst 
m,  the  world,  and  the  deidl,  which  they  had  so  solemnly  re- 
pnnoed  at  the  baptismal  font. 

2.  Oonfirmation  is  conferred  by  a  bishop,  who  first  imposes 
Ills  hands  on  those  to  be  confirmed,  invoking  upon  them  the 

[oly  Ghost,  with  his  sevenfold  gifts ;  he  then  signs  the  fore- 
bad  of  each  with  chrism  in  the  form  of  the  cross,  saying  at  the 
same  time :  "  I  sign  thee  with  the  sign  of  the  cross ;  I  con* 
lirm  thee  with  the  chrism  of  salvation,  in  the  name  of  the  Far 
|ther,  and  of  the  Son,  atad  of  the  Holy  Ghost.    Amen." 

3.  The  bishop  concludes  the  ceremony  by  giving  the  person 
I  confirmed  a  slight  blow  on  the  cheek,  to  signify  that  as  fol- 
lowers of  Jesus  Ohrist,  we  must  bear  trials  and  persecutions  for 

I  his  sake. 

4.  The  chrism  used  in  confirmation,  is  an  ointment  made  oi 
the  oil  of  olives  and  balm.  The  oil  signifies  the  effiact  of  this 
holy  sacrament,  namely,  spuitual  strength  and  purity  of  heart, 
and  preservation  from  the  rust  of  sin ;  and  the  sweetness  of 
bahn,  the  odor  of  a  good  and  virtuous  life. 

6.  Oonfirmation  can  only  be  received  once,  hence  it  is  a 


110 


THU  THIRD  JiBADBB. 


great  misforttme  not  to  receive  it  with  the  proper  dispositioj 
Formerly  it  was  the  custom  to  confirm  children  immediatj 
after  baptism,  bat  now  it  is  generally  delayed  until  after  i 
have  made  their  first  commnnion.  It  is  not  a  sacrament  ah 
lately  necessary  for  salvation,  bat  it  woald  be  a  grievoiuj 
to  omit  receiving  it  throngh  contempt  or  neglect. 

6.  Children  oaght  to  look  forward  with  a  longing  desircj 
the  moment  when  they  shall  have  the  happiness  to  receive  tij 
holy  sacrament,  and  daily  ask  of  Almighty  God  the  grace  i] 
receive  it  worthily,  and  as  often  resolve  to  live  np  to  the  ob^ 
gations  it  imposes,  when  they  shall  have  received  it. 


9.  BiBDB  IN  SUMMBB. 

1.  TJOW  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  most  bc^ 
XL  Flitting  aboat  in  each  leafy  tree ; 

In  the  leafy  trees  so  broad  and  tall, 

Like  a  green  and  beaatifal  palace  hall, 

With  its  aury  chambers,  light  and  boon,* 

That  open  to  son,  and  stars,  and  moon ; 

That  open  onto  the  bright  bine  sky. 

And  the  firolicsome  winds  as  they  wander  by ! 

2.  They  have  left  their  nests  on  the  forest  bongh ; 
Those  homes  of  delight  they  need  not  now ; 
And  the  yonng  and  die  old  they  wander  oat, 
And  traverse  their  green  world  ronnd  aboat ; 
And  hark  I  at  the  top  of  this  leafy  hall, 
How  one  to  the  other  in  love  they  call  I 

«  Gome  np  I  come  ap  I"  they  seem  to  say, 
"Where  the  topmost  twigs  in  the  breezes  sway. 

8.  "  Come  up,  come  up  I  for  the  world  is  fair  ■ 
Where  the  merry  leaves  dance  in  the  sammer  air." 


*  Boon,  pleaaant. 


BIKD8  IN   SDMMKR. 


Ill 


And  the  birds  below  give  back  the  cry, 
«  We  come,  we  come  to  the  branches  high.'' 
How  pleasant  the  lives  of  the  burds  must  be, 
Living  in  love  m"&  leafy  tree  I 
And  away  throngh  the  air  what  joy  to  go, 
And  to  look  on  the  green,  bright  earth  below  I 


4.  How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be, 
Skimming  about  on  the  breezy  sea ; 
Cresting  the  billows  like  silvery  foam. 
Then  wheeling  away  to  its  cliff-bmlt  home  t 
What  joy  it  most  be  to  sail,  upborne 
By  a  strong,  tree  wing,  throngh  the  rosy  mom  t 
To  meet  the  young  sun  face  to  face. 
And  pierce  like  a  shaft  the  boundless  space ; — 

5  To  pass  throngh  the  bowers  of  the  silver  cloud ; 
To  sing  in  the  thunder  halls  alond ; 


11^  TBK  TUIHD  RBADBB. 

To  spread  out  the  wings  for  a  wild,  free  flight 
With  the  apperKdoad  winds, — Oh,  what  delight  I 
Oh,  what  would  I  give,  like  a  bird,  to  go 
Bight  on  through  the  arch  of  the  snn-lit  bow, 
And  see  how  the  water-drops  are  kiss'd 
Into  green,  and  yellow,  and  amethyst ! 

6.  How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be, 
Wherever  it  listeth  there  to  flee ; 

To  go  when  a  Joyfiil  fancy  calls,  ^ 

Dashing  adown  'mong  the  waterfalls ;         « 
Then  to  wheel  about  with  their  mates  at  play, 
Above,  and  below,  and  among  the  spray, 
Hither  and  thither,  with  screams  as  wild 
As  the  laughing  mirth  of  a  rosy  child ! 

7.  What  Joy  it  must  be,  like  a  fiving4)reeze, 
To  flutter  about  'mid  the  flowering  trees ; 
Lightly  to  soar,  and  to  see  beneath 

The  wastes  of  the  blossoming  purple  heath, 
And  the  ydlow  furce,  like  fields  of  gold, 
That  gladdened  some  fairy  region  old  I 
On  mountain  tops,  on  the  billowy  sea. 
On  the  leafy  stems  o^  the  forest  tree. 
How  pleasant  the  life  of  a  bird  must  be  I 


10.  Thb  Childbbn  and  thb  iNTAirr  Jesus. 

A  T  the  time  that  the  celebrated  Egidius  was  provincial  of  I 
u\.  Spun,  he  gave  the  habit  of  the  order  to  a  young  Gascon  I 
named  Bernard,  who  was  received  into  the  convent  of  Santa- 
rem,  and  became  distinguished  among  that  suntly  commumtj  | 
for  the  holy  simplicity  of  his  life. 

2.  The  circumstances  attending  his  death,  attested  by  &!■  j 
most  all  tJj^  writers  on  the  history  of  the  order,  are  of  pecoliat 
beauty.    Bernard  filled  the  office  of  sacristan  in  the  convent 


TUB  OUILDRBM   AND  THB  INFANT  JflSUB. 


118 


Santarem ;  an  ofiBce,  the  exercise  of  which  was  peculiarly 
fUghtfol  to  him,  from  the  many  opportnnities  it  gave  him  of 
lalging  his  deyotion  unseen  by  any  one  but  his  Lord,  whom 

loved  to  honor  by  a  reverent  care  of  the  altar  and  every 
jiing  belonging  to  the  Divine  mysterieci.  Besides  this  employ- 
fent,  his  spare  thne  was  occupied  in  the  education  of  two 
liildren,  the  sons  of  a  neighboring  gentleman,  who  sent  them 
rery  day  to  the  convent,  where  they  remahied  until  evening, 
[nly  sleephig  at  their  father's  house. 

3.  These  two  boys  were  permitt«d  to  wear  the  novices' 
Lbit  of  the  Friars-Preachers,  bebig  probably  desthied  for  the 
krder,  although  not  as  yet  received  into  the  community ;  and 
Iheir  innocence  and  goodness  of  disposition  rendered  them  pe- 
culiarly dear  to  Blessed  Bernard.  It  was  his  custom,  when 
busy  in  the  sacristy,  to  allow  them  to  remain  in  a  chapel,  then 
dedicated  to  the  Holy  Eiogs,  on  the  right  of  the  high  altar, 
rhere  they  used  to  sit  on  the  altarsteps,  reading  or  writing 
^heir  exerdses ;  spinding  their  time  happUy  until  their  master's 

etom.  Here  also  they  were  accustomed  to  spread  out  the 
Idinners  which  they  brought  with  them  from  home,  which  they 
Itook  together  in  the  same  place,  as  soon  as  they  had  finished 
[their  daily  lessons. 

4.  On  the  altar  of  this  chapel,  which  was  seldom  used  for 
[the  purpose  of  saying  mass,  there  was  an  image  of  the  Blessed 
I  Virgin,  holding  her  Divine  Son  in  her  arms;  and  the  two 
'  children  came  to  look  on  the  Holy  Infant  almost  as  a  com- 
I  panion,  and  were  wont  to  talk  to  him,  as  he  seemed  to  look 

down  on  them  from  his  mother's  arms,  with  the  simple  fa 
miliaril^  of  their  age.  One  day,  as  they  thus  sat  on  the  altar- 
steps,  one  of  them  raised  his  eyes  to  the  image  of  the  little 
Jesos  that  was  just  above  hun,  and  sold,  "  Beautiful  child, 
hew  is  it  you  never  take  any  dinner  as  we  do,  but  always  re- 
main without  moving  all  day  long  ?  Come  down  and  eat  some 
dinner  with  us, — ^we  will  give  it  to  you  with  all  our  hearts." 

5.  And  it  pleased  God  to  rewarid  the  innocence  and  simple 
faith  of  the  children  by  a  wonderful  miracle ;  for  the  carved 
form  of  the  holy  child  became  radiant  with  life,  and  commg 
down  from  his  holy  mother's  arms,  he  sat  with  them  on  the 


114 


THE  THIBD  ByAniq^ 


gronnd  before  the  altar,  and  took  some  of  their  dfainer  ^ 
them.    Nor  need  we  wonder  at  so  great  a  condescension,^ 
membering  how  he  came  onhiTlted  to  be  a  gnest  with  Zaoch 
who  was  a  sinner,  and  that  the  two  whom  he  now  consenlj 
to  treat  as  his  hosts,  were  clothed  in  that  pure  robe  of 
tismal  innocence  which  makes  ns  worthy  to  recciye  him  no 
our  roof. 

6.  Now  this  happened  more  than  once,  so  tliat  the  neglecti 
chapel  became  to  these  two  children  fall  of  the  Joy  of  heaTei| 
and  by  daily  conrerae  with  their  Divine  Lord  they  grew  in  i 
fervent  love  towards  him,  that  they  wearied  for  the  ho^ 
when  they  might  have  him  with  them ;  caring  for  nothing  eli 
than  this  sweet  and  familiar  interooorso  with  the  Lord 
heaven.    And  their  parents  perceived  a  diange  in  them, 
how  their  only  pleasure  was  in  hastening  to  the  convent,  as ! 
it  contained  a  secret  source  of  happiness  which  had  not 
revealed  before.    They  therefore  questioned  them  closely ;  anil 
the  children  told  them  every  thing  without  reserve. 

7.  But  the  tale  seemed  to  those  who  listened,  nothhig  bntl 
an  idle  invention,  or  perhaps  an  artifice  in  order  to  obtain  i] 
larger  quantity  of  food ;  and  they  therefore  took  no  notice  ol[ 
what  they  said  beyond  reproving  them  for  their  folly. 

But  when  they  repeated  the  same  story  to  Bernard,  hel 
listened  with  very  different  feelings;  for  he  knew  the  holjl 
hearts  of  his  two  little  disciples;  and  he  felt,  moreover,  tbt^j 
there  was  nothing  unworthy  of  belief  in  the  fact  that  he  who, 
being  God,  became  a  little  child,  should  condescend  to  give  a 
mark  of  favor  to  those  of  whom  he  himself  has  said,  that 
"  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven."    When,  therefore,  after 
many  inquhries,  he  had  satisfied  himself  of  the  truth  of  the  tale, ' 
he  bade  them  give  glory  to  God  for  his  goodness ;  and  then  I 
considered  whether  there  was  no  way  in  which  these  circam- 
stances  might  be  made  to  serve  yet  further  to  the  happiness 
«nd  sanctification  of  his  pupils. 

8.  And  hearing  how  they  in  their  childish  way  expressed  a 
wonder  that,,  after  they  had  so  often  invited  the  child  to  eat 
some  of  thdjfdinner,  he  had  never  brought  any  food  with  him 
to  share  with  them,  he  bade  them,  the  neit  time  he  came,  ask 


THK  OHILDBBN   AMD  TUB   INFANT  JK8DS. 


116 


I  bow  this  was,  and  whether  he  would  not  ask  them  aome 

to  dine  with  him  in  his  Father's  honse.    The  boys  were 

;hted  with  this  idea ;  and  they  failed  not  to  do  as  they 

I  directed  the  next  time  that  they  were  alone  in  the  chapel. 

^n  the  child  smiled  on  them  graciously,  and  said,  "  What 

say  is  very  jost ;  within  three  days  I  inrite  yon  to  a  ban* 

^t  in  my  Father's  honse :"  and  ?^th  this  answer  they  re 

aed  fall  of  Joy  to  their  master. 

He  well  knew  the  meaning  of  this  invitation ;  the  chaifge 
^t  had  gradually  appeared  hi  his  two  beloved  disciples  had 
been  unmarked  by  him ;  he  had  seen  them,  as  it  wnre 
jfore  their  time,  gro^rhig  ripe  for  heaven ;  and  he  understood 
it  it  was  the  Divine  pleasure,  after  thus  trahdng  them  for 
iveu  in  a  marvellous  way,  that  they  should  be  transplanted  to 
I  angelic  company,  before  their  hearts  had  once  been  touched 
the  knowledge  df  siii  or  the  contamination  of  the  world. 
1 10.  Tet  he  sighed  to  think  that  they  should  thus  bo  granted 
pass  to  Christ  in  their  happy  infancy,  while  he,  who  had 
[>wn  old  in  the  spiritual  warfare,  was  to  be  left  behind ;  and 
olving  to  make  one  more  trial  of  the  condescension  which 
been  so  bounteously  lavished  on  his  pupils,  he  bade  them 
back  to  the  chapel,  and  tell  the  Divhie  child  that  since  they 
[ore  the  habit  of  the  order,  it  was  necessary  for  them  to  ob* 
lerve  the  rules ;  and  that  it  was  never  permitted  for  novices  to 
cept  of  any  invitation,  or  to  go  to  the  house  of  any  person, 
^xcept  in  their  master's  company.  "Betum,  then,  to  your 
laster,"  said  the  Holy  Child,  "  and  bid  hun  be  of  the  com- 
einy;  and  on  Thursday  morning  I  will  receive  you  all  three 
ogether  in  my  Father's  house." 

11.  Bernard's  heart  bounded  with  emotion  when  he  heard 

these  words.    It  was  then  the  first  of  the  Bogation  days,  and 

jthe  day  which  had  been  appointed  was  therefore  Ascension 

[day.    He  made  every  arrangement  as  for  his  approaching 

death,  and  obtained  leave  on  that  day  to  say  his.  last  mass,— ^ 

his  two  disciplefi  servkg  during  the  celebration,  and  receiving 

I  communion  from  his  hands.    Doubtless  it  would  be  hard  for 

OS  to  realize  his  feelings  of  devout  and  joyful  expectation 

daring  those  moments. 


J'r^ 


k" 


116 


TUB  THIRD  BBADBR. 


12.  And  when  mass  was  ended,  he  knelt  before  the 
altar  with  the  children,  one  on  either  side,  and  all  three 
mended  their  souls  to  QoQ,  as  though  thej  knew  their 
hoar  was  come,  and  the  altar-steps  were  to  be  their  deati 
And  it  was  even  so.    An  hoar  after,  some  of  the  bretl 
found  them  still  kneeling  thus  before  the  altar,  Bernard  ti 
a8  for  mass,  and  the  two  boys  in  their  serving^robes. 

18.  But  they  were  quite  dead :  their  eyes  were  closed, 
their/aoes  wore  a  sndle  of  most  sweet  tranquiUity;  and  it 
evident  that  there  had  been  no  death-struggle,  but  that 
souls  had  passed  to  the  presence  of  God  while  in  the  very 
of  prayer.    They  were  buried  in  the  chapel  of  the  Holy 
which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many  of  our  Lord's  visits 
the  two  children ;  and  a  picture  was  hung  over  the  spot, 
resenting  them  seated  on  the  altarnstep,  with  the  Divine  c1 
between  them. 

14.  This  was  the  only  monument  to  mark  the  place  of  t1 
burial ;  and  in  the  course  of  years  the  memory  of  it  was  1< 
and  the  chapel  became  disused  and  neglected  as  before, 
of  the  succeeding  priors  of  the  convent,  wishing  to  find  soi 
further  record  of  the  ancient  tradition,  dug  down  beneath  t1 
spot  indicated  by  the  picture ;  taking  care  to  have  two  a] 
tolic  notaries  and  the  vicar-general  of  the  diocese  present,  t»| 
gether  with  other  authoritieB  of  distinction  and  credit. 

16.  At  a  little  distance  beneath  the  surface  a  carved  stoail 
sarcophagy  was  found,  which  being  opened,  the  church  W 
immediately  filled  with  an  odor  of  surpassing  sweetness ;  and 
on  removing  the  clothes  that  lay  on  the  top,  the  remains  of 
three  bodies  were  discovered,  which  they  could  not  doubt  wen' 
those  of.  Blessed  Bernard  and  his  novices ;  for  the  bones  ol 
the  middle  skeleton  were  the  size  of  a  grown  man,  while  those 
on  either  side  were  small  and  delicate. 

16.  From  the  great  number  of  years  that  had  passed,  most 
of  them  were  reduced  to  mere  dust ;  but  some  portions  oi 
white  doth  showed  that  they  Lad  been  buried  in  the  habit  oi 
the  order.  The  memory  of  this  history  has  been  preserved 
even  up  to  our  own  times ;  for  A'om  the  time  of  this  solemn 
translation  of  their  bodies,  a  mass  of  the  ascension  was  oelo' 


everyl 

;bem,  9SiA 

^hom  tl 

ilr  death  ] 

year  131 


U. 


1. 


-m- 


THB  OBAVK  OW  FATHER  MARQUETTB. 


m 


eyery  Thondaj,  in  thankBgiring  for  the  graoes  granted 
Ithem,  and  a  confraternity  of  the  Infant  Jesus  established, 
(whom  the  onstody  of  the  ancient  image  was  intmsted. 
eir  death  is  supposed  by  Sosa  to  have  taken  place  about 
I  year  127t. 


11.  Tab  Gbatb  of  Father  MABQUETxa. 

1.  rpHERE  is  a  wild  and  lonely  dell, 
•L  Far  in  the  wooded  West, 
Where  never  summer's  sunbeam  fell 

To  break  its  long,  lone  rest. 
Where  never  blast  of  wmter  swept, 

To  ruffle  or  to  chill, 
'  The  calm,  pellucid  lake  that  slept, 
O'erhung  with  rock  and  hill. 

2.  A  woodland  scene  by  hills  inclosed. 

By  rocky  barriers  curb'd. 
Where  shade  and  silence  have  reposed. 

For  ages  undisturbed. 
Unless  when  some  dark  Indian  maid. 

Or  prophet  old  and  gray, 
Have  hied  them  to  the  solemn  shade. 

To  weep  alone  or  pray. 

8.  One  mom,  the  boatman's  bugle  note. 

Was  heard  vdthin  the  dell. 
And  o'er  the  blue  waves  seem'd  to  float, 

Like  some  unearthly  swell. 
A  skiff  appears,  by  rowers  stout 

Urged  swiftly  o'er  the  tide. 
An  aged  man  sat  wrapp'd  in  thought, 

Who  seem'd  the  hehn  to  guide. 

4.  He  was  a  holy  Capuchin, 

Thin  locks  were  on  his  brow ; 


118  TBS  TBWO  RBADKll. 

HIi  eye,  that  bright  and  bold  had  beel^ 
With  age  wm  darkened  now. 
*  From  diatant  landa,  beyond  the  lea, 

The  aged  pilgrim  came, 
To  combat  base  idolatry, 
And  spread  the  holy  name. 

6.  From  tribe  to  tribe  the  good  man  went, 

The  lacred  cross  he  bore. 
And  sarage  men  on  slanghters  bent,   • 

Would  listen  and  adore. 
Bat  worn  with  age,  his  ndssion  done, 

Earth  had  for  him  no  tie. 
He  had  no  farther  wish,  saye  one,— 

To  hie  hhn  home  and  die. 

A.  The  oarsman  spoke,  "  Let's  not  delay, 

(iood  father,  in  this  dell ; 
"lis  here  that  sayage  legends  say, 

Their  sinless  sjririts  dwell. 
The  hallowed  foot  of  prophet  sere, 

Or  pore  and  spotless  maid. 
May  only  dare  to  yentnre  here. 

When  night  has  spread  her  shade." 

7.  "  Dispel,  my  son,  thy  gronndless  fear, 

And  let  thy  heart  b"  ()>!*], 
For  (!ee,  npon  my  breenL  I  hinr^ 

The  consecrated  goivL      ^>^-  v, 
The  blessed  crqss  that  long  hath  been 

Companion  of  my  path, 
Presenred  me  in  the  tempest's  din. 

Or  stayed  the  heathen's  wrath, 


$  '*  Shall  goard  US  from  the  threatened  ham, 

What  form  soe'er  it  tske, 
''  The  hurricane,  or  sayage  arm. 

Or  spirit  of  the  lake." 


TBI  OSATI  Of  rATBBB  MAKQUBTTB. 


U9 


**  Bat  fAther,  ih«U  we  neTer  ceue, 
Through  MTtge  wildi  to  rounf 

My  heart  If  yeunlDg  for  the  peftce, 
Thftt  imilM  for  na  at  home. 

9.  'We're  traced  the  riTer  of  the  Weat, 

From  aea  to  fomitain-head, 
And  lail'd  o'er  broad  Bnperior'a  breaat^ 

B7  wild  adTentore  led. 
We've  slept  beneath  the  oyprem  ahade^ 

Where  noisome  reptile  hj, 
We've  chased  the  panther  to  his  bed, 

And  heard  the  grim  wolf  bay. 

10.  "  And  now  for  sonny  France  we  iic^ 

For  qniet  and  for  home ; 
Then  bid  na  pass  the  vallej  bj, 

Where  on^  spirits  roam." 
"  B>epine  not,  son !  old  age  is  slow. 

And  feeble  feet  are  mine; 
This  moment  to  my  home  I  go, 

And  thou  shali  go  to  tUne. 

11.  "  But  ere  I  qdt  this  Tale  of  death, 

For  realms  more  bright  and  foir, 
On  yoft  green  shore  my  feeble  breath, 

Womld  rise  to  Heaven  in  prayer. 
Then  high  on  yonder  headland's  brow. 

The  holy  altar  raise ; 
Ulffear  the  cross,  and  let  as  bow 

With  hamUe  hearts  in  praise." 


12.  Tin  ayd,  ^  cross  was  soon  npreaFd, 
On  that  lone,  heathen  shore, 

When  new  Ohristiaa  roioe  was  heard 
In  prayer  to  Ck>d  befbre. 

The  old  man  knelt,  his  head  was  bare, 
His  arms  crosi'd  <m  his  breaat ; 


lac 


THK  THIRD   BEADBB. 


He  pray'd,  bat  none  could  hear  the  prayer 
His  withered  lips  expressed. 

13.  He  ceased,  they  raised  the  holy  man, 

Then  gazed  in  silent  dread, 
Chill  throngh  each  vein  the  life-blood  ran,-- 

The  pilgrim's  soul  had  fled. 
In  silence  pray'd  each  voyager, 

Their  beads  they  coxmted  o'er, 
Then  made  a  hasty  sepulchre, 

On  that  lone  ravine's  shore. 

14.  Beside  the  altar  where  he  knelt, 

And  where  the  Lord  released 
His  spirit  from  its  pilgrimage. 

They  laid  the  holy  priest. 
In  fear  and  haste,  a  brief  adieu 

The  wondering  boatmen  take, 
Then  rapidly  their  course  pursue 

Across  the  lonely  lake. 

15.  In  after  years,  when  bolder  men 

The  vale  of  ^spirits  sought. 
O'er  many  a  wild  and  wooded  glen 

They  roam'd,  but  found  it  not. 
We  oidy  know  that  such  a  priest 

There  was,  and  thus  he  fell, 
But  where  his  saintly  relics  rest, 

No  living  man  can  tell. 


12.  Abbaham. 

ISMAEI/S  banishment  restored  peace  to  Abraham's  fanuljJ 
and  left  Isaac  the  indisputable  heir  of  his  father's  foi 
Isaac  was  growing  up  in  the  full  promise  of  early  youth,  whei 
God  was  pleased  to  make  trial  of  Abraham's  faith,  in  a  poiDtl 


the  prajer 

man, 
hblood  ran,^ 


ABBAHAM. 


121 


most  decisive ;  ne  orderea  him  to  take  that  very  Isaac,  his 
loved  SOD,  and  to  offer  him  in  sacrifice  upon  the  mountain 
should  show  him. 


?*  i:{ , 


m 

m 

-  ilk 

m^3 

:  m 

'  Jk^'j^^^^^I 

Ja^ 

';»'  -^^ 


r 


'^^ 


^*^> 


b 


2.  Abraham  had  always  looked  upon  his  son  as  a  special 
<ft  from  God,  and,  therefore,  did  not  hesitate  a  single  moment 
to  give  him  back  in  the  manner  that  God  required.  He  had 
been  assured  that  his  posterity  should  one  day  become  as '  nu- 
merous as  the  sands  upon  the  shore,  or  as  the  stars  in  heaven. 

A 


122 


THE  THIBO  K£AD£B. 


^  \ 


Steadfast,  therefore,  in  that  belief,  and  nnshaken  in  his  hop 
Abraham  stifled  every  doubt  he  might  otherwise  have  formij 
of  the  repeated  promises  God  had  made  him ;  he  rose  early  J 
the  morning,  and  keeping  his  secret  to  himself^i  went  silentlj 
OQt  with  Isaac  and  two  servants. 

3.  He  carried  with  him  the  wood  necessary  to  consume  thtl 
holocaust,  and  directed  his  way  towards  the  mountain.  Fbcedl 
in  his  resolution  he  went  on  for  two  days,  and  on  the  tbirdl 
came  in  sight  of  the  destined  place  of  sacrifice.  He  told  hia] 
servants  to  remain  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  while  he  with 
son  should  go  up  co  adore  their  God.  Inflexible  to  the  sug-l 
gestions  of  flesh  and  blood,  he  took  in  his  hand  the  fire  andl 
the  sword,  and  gave  to  his  son  the  wood  that  was  intended] 
for  the  sacred  fire. 

4.  Charged  with  his  load,  Isaac  proceeded  up  the  hill,  a  I 
lively  representation  of  him  who  was  afterwards  to  ascend  the  | 
mount  of  Calvary  loaded  with  a  cross,  on  which  he  was  to 
consummate  the  great  work  of  our  redemption.  As  they  were 
goii^  on,  Isaac  asked  his  father  where  the  victim  was  ?  The 
question  was  too  interesting  not  to  awaken  aU  the  tenderness 
of  a  father's  love  in  such  circumstances ;  Abraham  dissembled 
the  secret  feelings  of  his  heart,  and  with  a  manly  firmness  an- 
swered, that  God  would  provide  the  victfan. 

5.  Being  come  to  the  appomted  spot,  he  erected  an  altar, 
and  laid  the  wood  in  order  upon  it ;  then  having  bound  and 
placed  his  son  Isaac  thereon,  he  took  up  the  sword,  and 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  strike.  The  firm  obedience  of  the 
father,  and  the  humble  submission  of  the  son,  were  all  that 
God  reqmred  of  them.  An  angel  at  that  moment  was  dis- 
patched to  stop  the  father's  arm,  and  to  assure  him  that  God 
was  satisfied  with  the  readiness  of  his  obedience.  The  angel 
called  aloud  on  Abraham ;  Abraham  answered  the  voice,  and 
looking  round  saw  a  ram  with  his  horns  entangled  amid  th 
brambles,  which  he  took  and  offered  a  holocaust  for  his  son. 

6.  This  history,  which  is  so  mysterious,  and  in  almost  everp 
circumstance  so  resembling  the  passages  of  our  Saviour's  pas- 
sion, is,  according  to  the  holy  fathers,  an  mstruction  for  all 
parents  to  consult  the  will  and  implore  the  aid  of  God,  before 


I 


pien  in  Ms  hor^ 
T'WMe  have  fo  J 

»  *®  rose  earJj  J 
^^K  went  silenti] 

I  -  *o  consame  t  J 
"•onntain.  p  J 

H  on  the  t  J 

I^JJehewithJ 
.exiWe  to  the  suJ 

[hand  the  fire  a/d 
*»'  was  intendedj 

;?  op  the  hill,  af 

«8  to  ascend  the 
'^«J  ie  was  to ' 

\,^^  they  Were 
jtimwas?    The 

"the  tenderness 
7»n»  dissembled 
''Jfinnnessan. 

pcted  an  altar 
'DfiT  bound  and 
'^.«^ord,  and 
Joience  of  the 
^ere  an  that 
?ent  iras  dis- 
^  that  God 
The  angeJ 
I®  voice,  and 
«d  amid  th 
>r  his  son. 
hnost  every 
poor's  pas. 
'ion  for  alJ 
H  before 


HOHEN  LINDEN. 


las 


iej  presume  to  dispose  of  their  children.    Nothing  less  than 
^e  eternal  welfare  of  their  souls,  and  the  service  of  Almight; 
(od,  ought  to  guide  their  intention,  and  regulate  their  con- 
juct  in  this  respect. 

7.  Saint  Chrysostom  more  at  large  deplores  the  misfortune 
)f  those  parents  who,  notwithstanding  their  Christian  profes- 
sion, sacrifice  their  children,  not  to  God  as  Abraham  did,  but 
\o  Satan,  either  by  engaging  them  in  the  pursuits  of  a  vain 
rorld,  or  by  drawing  them  from  the  practice  of  a  virtuous 
fe.  "  Abraham  is  the  only  one,"  says  he, "  who  consecrates  his 
[son  to  God,  while  thousands  of  others  turn  their  children  over 
to  the  devU ;  and  the  joy  we  feel  in  seeing  some  few  take  a 
'christian  care  of  then:  little  ones,  is  presently  suppressed  with 
'  grief  at  the  sight  of  those  greater  numbers,  who  totally  neg- 
lect that  duty,  and  by  the  example  they  give,  deserve  to  be 
considered  rather  as  parricides,  than  the  parents  of  their 
children."  * 


1. 


2. 


13.   HOHBNLINDBN. 

ON  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow : 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight. 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 


8.  By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade ; 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

4.  Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven, 
Then  msh'd  the  steed  to  battle  driven, 


124 


THE  TUIBD   KHADER. 


:f 


! 


And  loader  than  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

6.  Bat  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

6.  'Tis  mom ;  but  scarce  yon  leyel  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

1.  The  combat  deepens.    On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory  or  the  grave  1 
Wave,  Munich !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  i 


8. 


Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet  I 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding  sheet ; 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


14.  Language  of  Flowers.  ' 

/^  OOD  news  !  joyful  news  1"  cried  the  happy  voice  of  Alice 
VJ  Telford,  running  in  with  a  huge  bunch  of  roses  in  her 
hand.  "Gome,  Gattie  I  come.  Honor  I  we  are  to  go  to  help 
Sister  Theresa  in  the  sacristy, — oh,  I  do  so  love  that  I  The 
great  candlesticks  are  out,  and  the  new  branches,  and  such  a 
lovely  veil  for  the  tabernacle  I  I  was  peeping  in  with  one 
eye,  after  I  had  helped  to  clean  the  chapel,  and  Father  Ash* 
urst  said,  '  Gome  here  with  me ;  I  see  what  you  want ;'  and 
be  went  into  the  nuns'  sacristy,  and  told  Sister  Theresa  there 
was  a  poor  beggar  outside  who  wanted  to  speak  to  her  ;  and 
when  she  came  out,  he  did  so  laugh  I  and  then  Sister  Theresa 
told  me  to  fetch  all  the  girls  to  help  to  dress  the  sanctuary." 


the  sac 
Jcodd  not 
[labor,  and 
■marked  o\ 
4.  "Yc 
"Do  I 
[them  at  w 
"Whic 
"Inev^ 

I  but  all  tb 

"True. 

5.  "Y 

I  but  I  an 

j  They  sa^ 

"Whi 

"The 

thought 

melhas, 

They  w 

Can  yo 

6.  " 

pore  V 

Heart 

blood 

Bweet< 

1. 
"and 
laugli 


^NOUAOB  OF  FL0WBH8. 


123 


ireo 


oice  of  Alice 
foses  in  her 
o  go  to  help 
that  I    The 
,^  and  such  a 
*«  with  one 
Father  Ash- 
'«^ant;'  and 
leresa  thcFe 
0  her ;  and 
ier  Theresa 
wctaary." 


2.  She  was  still  speaking,  when  all  the  children  began  to 
here  and  there,  to  gather  np  their  flowers,  vases,  and 

trings ;  bat  the  lay  sister,  who  was  darning  stockings  at  the 
table,  qoietly  collected  her  work  into  her  basket,  and  with  a 
few  cahn  and  controlUng  words  stilled  the  excitement,  and 
|ooD  reducing  the  scattered  elements  into  order,  a  quiet  pro- 

ressive  movement  was  effected  towards  the  convent. 

3.  They  found  Lucy  Ward  and  Magdalen  in  the  nuns'  sac- 
hsty.  The  former  was  silently  arrangmg  a  large  basket  of 
^xqnisite  hot-house  flowers  in  tall  fairy-like  white  vases ;  and 

the  sacristan  glanced  at  those  which  were  finished,  she 
coald  not  but  marvel  at  the  faultless  taste  which  guided  the 
llabor,  and  breathe  a  fervent  prayer  for  the  soul  that  seemed 
|marked  out  by  God  for  some  special  grace. 

4.  "  You  love  flowers,  Lucy  ?" 
"Do  I  not  love  them,  sister?"  replied  Lucy ;  "I  dream  of 

I  them  at  night, — ^I  shotld  like  to  die  looking  at  them." 

"Which  do  you  love  best  ?" 

"  I  never  coidd  quite  tell.  They  speak  such  different  words , 
but  all  that  they  say  makes  music." 

"  True,    Is  that  why  you  love  them  ?" 

5.  "  Yes,  sister ;  I  get  very  tired  of  hearing  people  talk, 
but  I  am  never  tired  of  the  silent  words  of  my  dear  flowers. 
They  say  so  much." 

"  What  do  they  seem  to  say  to  you  this  evemng  ?" 
"  They  all  seem  to  whisper  something  new,"  replied  Lucy 
thoughtfully,  and  as  if  to  herself.  "  Look  at  these  white  ca- 
mellias, and  side  by  side  with  them  these  blood-red  ones. 
They  seem  to  me  to  mean  so  much,  but  I  cannot  read  it. 
Can  you,  sister  ?" 

6.  "Yes,"  replied  the  nun,  gently.  "The  sight  of  that 
pare  white  and  blood-red  reminds  us  always  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  of  Jesus  that  was  pierced  for  us.  Look,  here  are  the 
blood  and  water  that  flowed  out  for  us.  They  speak  the 
sweetest  music  to  our  hearts." 

T.  "That  is  beautiful  1"  said  Lucy,  hangbig  on  the  words  ; 
"  and  you  understand  the  floweis  too.  Everybody  has  always 
laughed  at  me  if  I  spoke  about  it,  except  Matthew.    Dear 


126 


THK  THIKO   BKADEB. 


I 


Matthew — he  never  langhs  at  me  but  he  shakes  his  he 
and  says  I  have  wild  talk,  and  he  can't  make  it  oat.' 
*'  You  love  Matthew  ?" 

8.  "  Oh,  I  love  him  in  my  deep  heart  1"  said  Lucy,  lie| 
wax-like  cheek  and  brow  flushing  with  a  thrill  of  feeling. 

"  You  have,  then,  two  hearts ;  and  you  love  sometiniol 
with  one  and  sometimes  with  the  other  ?" 

"  Yes,  sister,  I  have  an  outer  heart  for  everybody ;  but  nol 
one  is  in  my  inside  heart  but  Matthew  and  — "  she  stopped) 
short. 

9.  "  And  our  Lord,  now,  Lucy  ?" 
"  I  can't  tell,"  replied  Lucy,  returning  to  her  old  reseneJ 

"  No,  I  think  my  inside  heart  is  very  empty.  Let  us  talk  abonti 
the  flowers  again.  Look  at  these  roses,  sister ;  their  heads! 
are  quite  bowed  down  with  their  weight ;  they  cannot  keep! 
in  their  sweet  smell ;  it  seems  as  if  it  burst  out  from  their  great  I 
cups.   That  says  something  beautiful,  but  I  don't  know  what."  I 

10.  "  I  think  it  does,"  replied  the  nun :  "  it  says  that  thej , 
are  a  faint  poor  type  of  that  great  One  who  said,  '  I  am  the] 
Rose  of  Sharon ;'  and  whose  thorn-crowned  head  was  bo 
bowed  down  with  his  weight  of  love  on  the  cross,  that  the  < 
ort^^rflowing  scent  of  it  converted  first  the  poor  thief,  and 
aft«*rwards  thousands  of  miserable  sinners.    Let  it  draw  you, 
raj  child,  till  yon  run  after  those  most  precious  odors,  and  | 
mfke  them  yours  forever." 

11.  Lucy  was  quite  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  draw- 
ing out  a  rich  cluster  of  geraniums,  she  turned  her  large  eyes 
full  on  the  nun  and  said,  "  These  I  love  best  of  all,  but  I 
never  could  make  out  what  they  said.  They  all  seem  to  sing 
together  a  very  rich  song  that  goes  through  my  heart,  like  a 
hymn  I  heard  the  Spanish  sailors  sing  down  on  the  Parade 
last  summer  at  night.    Can  you  read  these  ?" 

12.  "Perhaps  not  in  a  way  that  you  can  understand 
These  may  represent  the  'royal  and  special  gifts  which  God 
bestows  on  the  friends  he  has  chosen  to  himself.  They  are 
set  apart  and  separated  from  other  gifts.  They  are  oidy  to 
be  bought  at  a  great  price,  nay,  they  aro  often  of  priceless 
Vjftluo.    They  cost  labor,  and  pains,  and  watchmg  ;  but  when 


(i 


HOMEWABD  BOUND. 


127 


pes  bis  he* 

kid  Lacy, 
feeling. 
«^e  sometinij 

^7;  butnol 
slie  stoppcdl 

oM  reserve,! 
»« talk  aboati 

their  headsl 
cannot  keepl 
«  their  great  I 
£nowwhot."l 
YB  that  the;  J 
t  'lamthej 
Jad  was  sof 
ss,  that  the  j 

thief,  and] 
'  draw  you, 
odors,  and 

then  draw- 
large  eyes 
aU,  but  I 
•w  to  sing 
*rt,  like  a 
e  Parade 

ierstanA 
ich  God 
rhey  are 
'  only  to 
priceless 
at  when 


[e  work  is  done,  where  can  we  find  its  like  ?  Those  who 
Assess  them  will  be  the  brightest  jewels  iu  his  crown  at  the 
St  day." 

13.  "  And  who  can  win  these  gifts  ?"  said  Lucy,  breath- 
8sly  awaiting  the  answer. 

"Those  who  lorie,"  replied  the  nun,  and  her  words  seemed 

Lacy  the  solemn  voice  of  God. 

The  teais  rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  she  mormnred  to  herself, 
[When  shall  I  know  hun?    When  will  he  JUl  my  inner 


keafv 


»» 


■Hi*i  li 


1. 


15.  HoMEWABD  Bound. 

OH  I  when  the  hoar  to  meet  again 
Creeps  on — and,  speeding  o'er  the  sea, 
My  heart  takes  np  its  lengthen'd  chain. 

And,  link  by  link,  draws  nearer  thee — 
When  land  is  hail'd,  and  from  the  shore, 
Gomes  off  the  blessed  breath  of  home, 
With  fragrance  from  my  mother's  door, 
Of  flowers  forgotten  when  I  come— 


128 


THE  THIRD   READElt. 


When  port  is  gaia'd,  and,  slowly  now, 
The  old  familiar  paths  are  pass'd, 

And,  ent^ing — unconscions  bow — 
I  gaze  cpon  thy  face  at  last, 

And  ran  to  thee,  all  faint  and  weak, 

And  feel  thy  tears  upon  my  cheek. 
2.      Ohl  if  my  heart  break  not  with  Joy, 

The  light  of  heaven  will  fairer  seem ; 
And  I  shall  grow  once  more  a  boy : 

And,  mother ! — 'twill  be  like  a  dream, 
That  we  were  parted  thus  for  years — 
And  once  that  we  have  dried  our  tears. 
How  will  the  days  seem  long  and  bright — 

To  meet  thee  always  with  the  mom. 
And  hear  thy  blessing  every  night — 

Thy  "  dearest,"  thy  "  first-bom  I" 
And  be  no  more,  as  now,  in  a  strange  land  forlorn? 


16.  Luot's  Death. 

HOW  is  Lucy?"  asked  Mildred  of  Gattie,  as  she  softljl 
entered  the  children's  class-room  on  the  morning  of  the 
eve  of  the  Octave  of  the  Assumption;  "  have  you  seen  her  J 
Cattie?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  been  with  Magdalen  to  talk  to  her,  and 
to  say  our  office,"  replied  Cattie ;  "  Magdalen  thmks  she  will 
die  very  soon,  but  I  cannot  believe  it.  Oh,  she  does  look  bo 
bright  and  beautiful—just  like  an  angel  I"        '' 

2.  '*  That's  why  I  think  she's  going  to  die,"  replied  Mag 
dalen,  who  now  followed  Gattie  into  the  room  with  her  office- 
book  in  her  hand.  "Lucy  looks  much  too  beautiful  to  live; 
I  mean  not  commonly  beautiful,  but  she  has  such  a  wonderful 
look.  Her  eyes  seem  as  If  they  had  seen  our  Blessed  Lady 
already ;  and  she  smiles  every  now  and  then  to  herself,  as  ii 
the  angels  were  talking  to  her." 

3.  "  So  they  do,  and  our  liord,  too,  I  am  sure,"  added 


LUCY  8  DEATH. 


129 


«  she  80%  I 

'On  seen  her,  | 

to  hep,  and 
nks  she  will 
oes  look  60 

plied  Mag 
heroflSce. 
fnl  to  hve; 
'^fonder/icl 
Med  Lady 
raelf,  as' if 


Pattio ;  "for  she  said  when  nobody  was  speaking,  '  Tes,  that 
qaito  true — jea,  dear  Lord ;'  Jast  as  if  onr  Lord  were  sitting 
hj  the  coach.    Oh,  I  hope  we  may  go  again  soon  and  see 
lerl" 

4.  "  Sisf  ^ayier  said  we  might  sit  np  part  of  to-night," 
kplied  Magdalen ;  "  we  four  are  to  take  it  in  tarns,  and  I  am 
^0  glad  we  may.  Bat  now  we  mast  go  into  school,  for  the 
bell  is  jast  going  to  ring." 

5.  The  said  bell  accordingly  did  ring  before  Cattle  had 
dished  washing  her  hands;  and  the  half-sad,  half-rejoicing 

Igronp  in  the  class-room  was  dispersed  by  its  well-known  sonnd. 
We  shall  take  the  opportanity  of  walking  np  to  the  convent, 
land  into  the  cool  infirmary  dormitory,  where  Lacy  lay  upon  a 
[large  coach,  with  dear  Sister  Xavier  i)y  her  side. 

6.  The  dormitory  was  long  and  high,  and  refreshingly 
[shaded  by  outside  awnings  from  the  scorching  san,  so  that  the 

breezes  blew  in  cool  and  fhigrant  over  the  garden  and  from 
'  the  sea  beyond.  The  tnrfy  downs  oatside  the  walls  looked 
now  green  and  bright,  and  now  shadowy,  as  the  cloads  flew 
over  them ;  and  beyond,  the  castle-crowned  hill,  and  distant, 
pictoresqne  old  town,  the  chalk'  cliffs  washed  by  the  waves,  the 
far-off  fleet  of  fishmg-boats,  and  the  wild  everlasting  sea,— > 
coold  all  be  seen  by  Lacy,  as  in  some  lovely  Italian  landscape, 
exqaliitely  painted. 

i.  Bat  though  at  times  her  eyes  were  fixed  apon  the  bine 
sky  or  bluer  sea,  her  thoughts  were  not  of  them.  Beaqtiful 
as  was  the  world  without, — ^the  glorious  "  earth-rind"  of  the 
external  works  of  God, — ^there  were  far  lovelier  visions  floating 
before  the  eyes  of  the  pure  and  lo  ving  soul  that  was  bidduig 
earthly  beauty  farewell  for  her  eternal  home. 

8.  For  now,  indeed,  Lucy  was  dying.  The  longing  desire 
of  heaven,  and  the  face  of  her  Licamate  God,  had  s0  firetted 
the  frail  body,  which  already  inherited  the  most  rapid  form  of 
decline,  that  thread  after  thread  of  the  delicate  frame  had 
snapped,  or,  as  it  were,  been  consumed  by  the  ardent  fire  within. 

9.  A  careless  observer  might  have  been  even  now  deceived ; 
bat  to  a  practised  eye,  the  alabaster  temples,  the  starting 
azare  vems,  the  bright  cheek  and  lips,  and  the  deep,  glittering 


180 


THE  YHISD  READER. 


brightness  of  the  eye,  told  that  in  a  few  hours  the  thirsty 
soul  would  be  at  rest. 

10.  **  Sister,"  whispered  Lucy,  "  will  Father  Ashnrst  cod 
sopn  ?" 

"  Very  soon,  dear  child ;  it  is  not  three  o'clock  yet.  Jkl 
you  feel  worse?" 

"  I  feel  well,"  replied  Lucy,  speaking  with  difficulty, "  quiii 
well ;  but  oh,  I  see  such  lovely  things,  and  I  want  to  get  thcre| 
very  much." 

11.  The  sister  listened  with  breathless  attei)i.ion,  while  LncjJ 
as  if  from  a  heavy  dream  or  half  ecstasy,  in  broken  sentencei| 
continued — 

"  No  words  can  tell  what  they  are  like  ....  white  shapes,! 
all  snow-white,  with  gold  dew-drops  on  their  wings  ....  and! 
they  bow  down  softly  all  together,  like  white  lilies  when  the! 
wmd  blows  over  them.  They  are  going  up  and  up,  such  1 1 
glorious  place  ....  and  they    (ao  me  with  them  ....  but! 

where  I  cannot  see There  is  one  there  who  sits  like  t 

king,  but  I  cannot  see  his  face ;  he  says  it  is  not  time." 

12.  Two  sisters  at  the  moment  came  softly  into  the  dormi- 
tory, one  of  whom  whispered  something  to  Sister  Xavier ;  the  I 
other  was  Mother  Begis,  the  novice-mistress,  whom  Lucy  bad  I 
always  greatly  loved.    But  now  she  did  not  perceive  her ;  and  1 
as  they  quietly  sat  down  behind  the  couch,  she  again  cpoke : 

13.  "And  now,  I  think,  it  would  be  time,  if  Father  Ashurst 
were  to  come  and  bring  me  my  last  food.  I  think  if  he  were 
here,  I  could  beg  him  so  much  that  he  could  not  leave  me  be- 
hind. Dear  Sister  Xavier,  will  you  ask  Father  Ashurst  to 
come  now?" 

14.  "He  is  coming,  my  child,"  replied  the  sister,  softly 
rising,  and  bending  over  her ;  "  but,  Lucy,  you  promised  to 
be  very  good  and  patient." 

"  Yes,  sister,  I  was  wrong.  Indeed  I  will  be  good.  I  will 
wait ;  but  every  moment  seems  a  year.  I  cannot  think  hov 
you  can  be  always  so  patient  when  you  see  those  shapes,  and 
see  his  face  so  often,  and  hear  his  voice.  Now  I  see  them 
going  up  again. 

15.  "  Oh,  how  many,  many  thousands,  with  their  hands  to 


LUCY  8  DKATII. 


131 


nher,  and  their  long,  long  wings,  and  their  snow-white  robes  I 
[nd  there  are  more,  more,  with  bare  heads,  /tnd  crunson 
fosses  on  their  breasts,  and  bright  armor,  and  cloaks  all 
fashed  in  the  blood  of  One.    Oh,  let  me  go  with  theml 
|)iow  me  thy  face,  and  let  me  live  1" 
16.  Sister  Xavier  rose  and  glided  away ;  bat  she  soon  re* 
limed  with  a  religious,  at  the  sight  of  whom  the  sisters 
Dse,  and  removed  farther  from  Lacy's  couch.    It  was  the 
lotber  Superior,  who  quietly  took  her  place  beside  Lucy's 
lillow,  and  wiped  the  death-drops  that  now  stood  thickly  on 
fcr  transparent  brow. 

"  Reverend  mother,''  said  the  child,  catching  hold  of  her 

[and,  and  kissing  it  with  joyful  respect,  "  where  am  I  ?"  Then 

aediately  she  relapsed  into  her  former  dreamy  state. 

n.  "There  is  one  sitting  by  his  side.    She  is  coming  soon 

jfor  me,  for  her  hands  are  spread  out  towards  me.    O  Mary ! 

I  Mother !  Mary,  lead  me  to  Jesus  1 .  . .  .  Gome  quickly,  dear 

Hesus;  I  am  very  tired  of  waiting.    Oh,  let  me  see  thee  I 

lioa  art  sweeter  than  honey  and  the  honeycomb.    Thou 

rt  calling  me  to  be  crowned  on  the  mom^tains.    How  long 

bare  I  cried  to  thee  to  come !...."   Lucy  sank  back,  gasp- 

|iog  on  the  pillow ;  her  breath  coming  thick  and  thicker  from 

ber  laboring  breast,  while  the  drops  stood  on  her  forehead  like 

irain.    Her  eyes  opened,  and  their  depths  seemed  deeper  than 

lerer.    "  Food !  food !"  she  gasped,  "  the  end  is  coming." 

18.  At  that  moment  the  faint  sound  of  a  distant  bell  was 
[heard  coming  along  the  corridors.    It  was  borne  so  famtly  at 

first,  that  the  sisters  did  not  observe  it;  but  the  first  sound 

I  was  enough  for  the  ear  of  the  listener.    To  her  it  was  the 

"  cry  of  the  voice"  of  the  Beloved.    She  sprang  up  from  the 

lows,  clasped  her  hands  together,  and  gazed  at  the  door  of 

the  dormitory  with  her  whole  soul  in  her  eyes. 

19.  Sister  Xavier  immediately  perceiving  that  the  blessed 
sacrament  was  approaching,  went  out  with  Mother  Regis  to 
meet  it.  The  little  altar  had  been  freshly  prepared  by  the 
infirmarian  with  large  bouquets  of  flowers,  and  was  now  lifted 
by  tho  other  sister  to  the  foot  of  Lucy's  couch,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance from  it.   Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  bell.  The  acolytes 


132 


TIIK  TIlIliD   KKADRB. 


entered,  two  and  two,  with  lighted  candles ;  then  all  the  i 
ten ;  and  lastly  came  Father  Ashnrst,  in  sarplice,  Tell,  i 
Btole,  bearing  the  blensed  sacrament  in  the  ciborlom,  from 
chapel.    The  "  children  of  Mary"  stole  in  behind. 

20.  Lucy's  glorious  eyes  were  upraised  to  the  Sacred  Hoi 
and  fixed  with  such  adoring  love  as  filled  the  witnesses  withi 
iiwful  joy.    "Jesus,"  she  said,  and  the  clear  tones  of 
young  voice  sounded  through  the  breathless  stilhiess  lilce  ty 
voice  of  an  angel, — "  Jesus,  my  food,  my  strength,  my  lift! 
come  to  my  thirsty  soul.    Now  I  see  thy  face.    It  is  enoug)i( 
I  come  into  thy  precious,  precious  wounds !" 

21.  She  received  the  bread  of  life,  the  strength  and  helpfoJ 
her  last  Journey,  and  immediately  sank  back  on  the  pillonl 
Her  hands  were  clasped ;  her  deep  eyes  fixed :  a  bright,  beai-| 
enly  smile  flitted  across  her  face.    "Jesus,  O  Jesus!  novl| 
see  thee  I  Jesus,  Mary,  come  1" 

22.  The  long,  level  rays  of  the  evening  sun  streamed  npoiil 
the  conch,  g^dhig  the  angelic  face  and  shining  waves  of  hair, 
the  smile  yet  lingering,  the  lips  yet  apart,  the  hands  still  geih( 
tly  clasped  upon  the  breast. 

The  pilgrim  was  gone  on  her  way  ref^hed ;  the  wanderaj 
was  at  home. 


17.  Atjtobioobapht  of  a  Boss. 

ON  a  fine  morning  in  June,  I  opened  my  eyes  for  the  firsts 
time  on  as  lovely  a  scene  as  could  be  imagmed.  I  was  in 
the  heart  of  a  most  beautiful  garden  filled  with  flowers. 
Fuschsias,  geraniums,  jasmmes,  tulips,  and  lilies  were  my 
companions.  I  saw  them  all  wide  awake,  and  smilmg  throagh 
the  dew  upon  their  bright  lids  ii^oyouB  greeting  to  the  moro- 
ing  sun.  A  gentle  breeze  would  sometimes  wander  by,  and 
then  the  tears  of  rejoicing  would  fall  upon  the  delicate  blades 
of  grass  at  our  feet. 

2.  The  dew  made  the  robes  of  my  neighbors  as  bright  as  ii 
covered  with  diamonds,  so  that  I  cast  a  look  npon  my  own 
pink  vesture,  to  see  if  I  were  likewise  adorned  with  the  same 


AUTOBIi  ORAPUY    Of  A   ROSE. 


188 


r 
fth  and  help  fi 
>n  the  piUowJ 
*  bright,  hea J 
Jesual  nowjl 


» for  the  firstl 
^'  I  was  in 
'ith  flowers, 
es  were  mj 
ling  throogh 
;o  the  mora- 
der  by,  and 
icate  blades 


Hory.  As  I  bowed  my  head  to  Inspect  myself,  a  few  drops 
If  the  crystal  water,  condensed  at  nightfall,  fell  upon  the  gmsa 
It  my  feet,  and  Arom  this  I  learned  that  I  was  indeed  gifted 
]rith  as  beantifal  gems  as  were  those  around  me. 
8.  Let  me  describe  to  you  one  of  the  little  community  of 
irhich  I  was  a  member — a  sister  rose-bud  growing  at  my  side, 
kt  is  trae  that  she  bad  not  opened  her  glowing  heart  to  the 
jfresh  breezes  and  to  the  sunshine,  as  I  had  done,  bat  the 
bcaaty  and  fragrance  thus  concealed  were  so  sweetly  promised, 
that  I  am  sure  nothing  could  be  more  lovely. 

4.  Spreading  tenderly,  her  calyx  held  her  heart,  bursting 
jwith  the  wealth  of  its  own  beauty,  lest  the  wooing  winds 
jshoold  call  forth  her  fragrance  prematurely ;  and  two  sister 

baby  rose-buds  rested  their  little  heads  almost  upon  her  cheek. 
Pretty  twins,  these  baby  rose-buds  I  The  tellrtale  zephyr  told 
me  that  they  would  be  as  beautiful  as  the  one  I  am  now  de> 
I  scribing,  when  she,  poor  thing,  had  faded  away. 

5.  Now,  you  see,  my  heart  first  tasted  sorrow ;  for  hereto- 
fore I  had  not  heard  of  decay  or  death ;  and  the  emotion 
aronsed  by  this  thought  agitated  me  so  violently,  that  my  dew- 
diamonds  were  almost  all  cast,  like  worthless  bubbles,  to  the 
^onnd.  This  joy,  this  sunshine,  this  fragrance,  this  beauty, 
was  bom  to  fade— or  rather  we  flowers,  who  love  all  these, 
and  treasure  them  in  our  hearts,  toe  must  fade,  and  so  the  joy, 
and  fragrance,  and  beauty  must  die.  But  my  beautiful  sister 
was  lovely  enough  to  be  immortal — and  I  shut  my  heart 
against  the  story  of  the  zephyr,  determined  not  to  believe  in 
clouds  till  clouds  should  overshadow  me. 

6.  The  bright  green  leaves  spread  their  glittering  palms  to 
catch  the  sunshine  for  the  fair  creature  they  were  ho  proud  to 
enckcle,  and  every  motion  of  the  parent  stem  brought  a  flood 
of  smiles  to  the  face  of  my  peerless  sister. 

7.  A  beautiful  creature,  endowed  with  wings,  and  with  a 
throat  colored  like  the  rainbow,  only  with  hues  more  soft, 
played  about  her  like  an  embodied  breeze ;  now  darting,  with 
a  motion  that  made  it  invisible,  up  into  the  air,  and  in  j.  mo- 
ment swaymg,  with  a  musical  hum  of  wings,  around  my  rose- 
neighbor,  and  making  her  sunny  vesture  tremble  with  the 


134 


TUK  THIRD   HEADER. 


happy  emotions  of  her  heart ;  then,  with  kisses  and  care 
on  my  sister's  stainless  brow,  the  wonderful  creatare  was  loi 
in  the  air  above  me,  and  I  think  that  the  hnmmmg-bird  mn! 
have  gone  to  a  place  where  there  is  no  death.    I  think  it  J 
with  the  breath  of  these  beautiful  beings  that  the  rainbow  i 
colored,  and  with  their  brightness  that  the  stars  are  lighted. 

8.  I  saw  strange,  lai^e  beings,  with  power  in  every  motioij 
bending  over  ns,  and  afterwards  learned  that  they  were  called 
men.    They  held  dominion  over  us,  and  though  some  scorneil 
our  gentle  natures,  they  who  were  pure  and  good  among  theoj 
were  very  tender  to  us,  and  could  not  bear  to  see  us  wonndei 

9.  At  noon  of  my  first  day,  when  the  shadow  of  the  mon 
tain-ash  waving  over  our  heads  completely  hid  me  from 
sun,  for  which  kindness  I  was  deeply  grateful,  as  the  rays,  sol 
cheering  in  the  morning,  were  almost  scorching  now,  one  oil 
the  daughters  of  men,  rob^  in  white,  came  and  kneeled  besidel 
me,  and  laid  her  pure  cheek  close  to  mine,  and  then  with  heij 
eyes  she  talked  to  me. 

10.  "  Rose,''  said  she,  "  beautiful  rose,  thou  art  an  emblem  { 
of  my  blessed  mother,"  and  here  a  dew  more  pure  and  sweet 
than  the  drops  I  had  sacrificed  in  the  morning  at  the  thought 
of  death  and  decay,  floated  along  the  dark  fringes  of  her  M, 
and  I  could  not  hear  the  voice  from  her  eyes  until  those  pee^ 
less  gems  had  faUen  upon  my  bosom.  Then  it  seemed  to  ma  | 
tliat  I  could  hear  and  see  thmgs  more  wonderful  than  were 
ever  given  to  rose  before  to  hear  and  see. 

11.  ** Beautiful  rose  1''  she  continued,  "lift  thy  royal  head, 
and  look  eastward;  thou  beholdest  there  a  buil^g  most 
sacred  to  our  hearts,  for  it  contains  the  King  of  Heaven — th« 
Creator  of  the  world — ^the  Author  of  my  being  and  of  thine. 
Lovely  flower,  ages  and  ages  ago,  longer  ago  than  thou  or  I 
can  think  to  measure,  in  the  glorious  country  beyond  the  stars 
—in  heaven — ^where  stands  the  eternal  throne  of  our  King,  a 
beautiful  angel,  a  being  of  power  and  light,  rebelled  against 
his  God,  and  was  cast  out  of  his  holy  home  forever.  Then 
the  world  was  created. 

12.  "  It  was  made  as  perfect  and  delightful  as  our  Heavenly 
Father  could  frame  it,  and  there  was  neither  sin,  nor  team, 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   A   K08K. 


185 


[es  and  care, 
■eature  wag  Ju 
ling-bird  mu 
I  think  it  [ 
the  rainbowi 
^re  %hte4 1 
every  motion 
'ey  were  called 
some  scomail 
•d  among  thei^ 
'6  as  woonde 
of  the  moo 
me  from  . 
M  the  rays,  i 
S  now,  one  ofl 
Reeled  besidel 
then  with  herl 

"^  an  emblem  i 
are  and  Bweet 
t  the  thought  i 
«  of  her  lids, 
'^  those  pee^  I 
eemed  to  ma 
ul  than  were  i 


royal  head, 
lilding  most 
[eaven— tho 
id  of  thine. 
"»  thou  or  I 
id  the  stars 
►nr  King,  a 
led  against 
wr.    Theu 

'  Heavenly 
nor  tears, 


Seath,  nor  sorrow  there.  In  this  garden  of  Otod  was  man 
[created.  He  was  formed  holy,  sinless,  and  pure,  hnt free 
las  the  bright  angel  who,  with  bis  brethren,  cAose  to  ques- 
]  the  power  of  the  Onmipotent.  The  name  of  this  angel 
]  Lucifer,  and  his  dominion  was  established  in  oiUer  dark- 
\,  far  away  from  the  eternal  fountain  of  all  light. 

"  Beautiful  rose,"  said  the  maiden,  "  thou  who  art  nur 

by,  and  wouldst  die  but  for  the  light,  thou  canst  not 

Iseive  of  this  outer  darkness — but  it  exists,  and  the  fallen 

bis  seek  to  blacken  the  universe  with  its  gloom.    The  firi^t 

sankind,  who  were  to  enjoy  eternal  light  so  long  as  they 

I  obedient  to  God,  were  discovered  by  the  prince  of  dark- 

^,  and  he  took  the  form  of  a  reptile,  and  tempted  them  to 

the  truth  of  the  Almighty  Father.    They  believed  his 

|tle  words  and  fell,  and  were  banished  from  the  garden  as 

cifer  had  been  banished  from  heaven." 


18.  Atjtobiogbaphy  of  a  Eobb — contintced. 


WE^T  rose,  I  dare  not '  tell  thee  the  wretchedness  this 
disobedience  brought  upon  man.    There  came  sickness, 

id  sorrow,  and  sighing — there  came  hatred,  crime,  and  death. 

lur  Heavenly  Father  saw  this  wretchedness ;  saw  the  triumph 
Lacifer  and  his  rebel  army,  and  he  so  loved  the  world  that 
sent  his  only-begotten  Son  upon  earth  to  be  a  man — ^to 

iffer  poverty,  to  8u£fer  temptation,  to  suffer  ignominy  and 

|eatb — ^that  thus  man  might  be  saved  from  eternal  death. 

2.  "This  God,  hicamate  in  humanity,  was  bom  of  a  spotless 
irgin— spotless  and  perfect  as  thou  art,  O  Rose,  and  thus  art 
ihoa  in  thy  beauty  her  emblem,  just  as  one  little  fleeting  sun- 
leara  is  a  type  of  the  innumerable  hosts  of  snns  and  worlds 
that  revolve  in  the  heavens. 

3.  "  This  God-man,  whose  name  was  Jesus,  was  slain  cruelly 
by  those  whom  he  came  to  save.  He  died  on  the  cross ;  but 
Ibofore  he  left  the  world,  he  gave  to  man  his  body  and  blood, 
Ms  divine  humanity,  as  food  to  nourish  his  soul.    By  this 


136 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


means  he  unites  himself  to  ns,  and  we  who  love  hii4  delig 
offer  what  is  richest  and  dearest  in  return  for  his  unbon 
love ;  for  by  his  death  he  has  snatched  us  from  the  poi 
the  prince  of  darkness,  and  in  exchange  has  given  ns  aj| 
inheritance  with  him  in  heaven,  where  there  is  no  deatl 
decay." 

4.  The  white-robed  daughter  of  men  ceased  speali 
rather  her  gentle  eyes,  that  told  this  all  to  me,  were  tn 
away  eastward,  to  where  the  dome  of  the  palace,  where  i 
the  King  of  kings,  glittered  calmly  in  the  sun. 

5.  She  looked  long  and  lovingly ;  and  the  ^fiw,  so  pria 
and  sweet,  flowed  in  two  pearly  streams  down  her  fair  f J 
and  I  came  near  worshipping  her,  becaase  so  great  tendeq 
seized  my  heart  as  thus  I  gazed  upon  her.    But  the  speal 
eyes  turned  once  more,  and  said,  "What  shall  we  offer?" 
from  the  inmost  depths  of  my  heart  swelled  the  fragrant  ( 
that  the  twilight  had  stored  there.    "  What  shall  /  offerl* 
repeated ;  ''  I  who  am  so  poor  in  treasure ;  I  who  have  notli 
but  my  beauty,  my  freshness,  and  my  unsullied  purity?  . 

6.  "What  can  I  offer  to  God  for  his  generous  love  tol 
race,  beautiful  maiden?  He  gave  the  life  of  a  Man-Ood. 
bear  me  to  his  presence  I  I  can  do  no  more  than  give  m^ 
to  him  I  Take  me,  then,  dear  maiden — I  would  lie  at  his  fij 
Mayhap  he  may  accept  the  odor  of  my  sacrifice,  and  beari 
in  his  bosom,  where  there  is  no  decay  or  death  1  Hasten,  i 
his  love  draws  me,  and  I  would  tarry  here  no  longer  1" 

1.  The  young  lover  of  Jesus  severed  me  gently  from : 
companions,  and  clasping  me  to  her  heart,  bore  me  to  the  fee 
of  her  Saviour.  As  we  passed  forward  to  the  sanctuary,  f 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross — ^because  Jesus  died  upon  the  en 
— ^by  passing  her  hand  from  her  forehead  to  her  breast,  and  tin 
from  shoulder  to  shoulder ;  but  before  she  did  this,  she  dipp 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  in  holy  water,  and  some  of  it  fell  up 
me,  and  I  experienced  sensations  I  had  never  before  ima^ci| 

8.  As  I  rested  there  at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  it  seemed  t 
me  that  more  life  came  to  me  from  those  sunple  drops  tbai 
had  ever  been  bestowed  by  the  heaviest -shower  or  gentlei 
rain  before.    The  maiden  now  bent  over  me,  and  her  eyes  ven 


AUTOBIOOSAI'HT   OF  A  BOSE. 


137 


tenderly  upon  me,  and  again  her  voice  nvhispered  to  my 

;: 

"  0  humble,  gentle,  mnocent  rose,"  said  she ;  "  thou  who 
;  so  soon  to  pass  away,  let  me  learn  from  thy  devotion,  and 
elj  give  to  my  God  aZ2  that  he  has  so  freely  bestowed  upon 
,;  however  little,  however  much,  sweet  rose,  thou  hast 
bght  me  to  offer  all  as  the  just  due  of  my  Creator  I''    Then 
white  hand  veiled  her  eyes,  and  her  bosom  heaved,  and,  in 
|e  great  tear  that  fell  upon  me,  I  saw  her  beautiful  soul  mir- 
red.    I  saw  what  I  had  never  dreamed  of  before. 
J 10.  Lucifer,  the  fallen  angel,  was  striving  to  lure  this  noble 
[ing  to  disobedience,  that  she  might  be  diSven  from  the  par- 
se of  her  Redeemer's  love.    This  was  why  the  tears  fell ; 
was  why  her  bosom  heaved.    Then  I  saw  an  angel  of 
^ht  with  his  powerful  wings  sweep  through  the  ahr,  and  the 
Lys  from  his  glorious  brow  dazzled  the  eyes  of  the  prince  of 
arkness,  and  he  reeled  away  from  the  presence  of  the  weepmg 
ttnghter  of  earth. 

11.  Oh  t  then  what  an  ocean  of  sweetness  flowed  over  that 
^mpted  soul,  and  bore  her  unresisting  to  the  eternal  fountain 
'  all  sweetness.  She  pressed  her  cheek  once  more  to  mine  in 
^or  of  the  mother  of  her  Saviour,  and  music  issued  from  her 
\  low  and  soft  as  the  voice  of  a  night-bird. 

12.  "  Thou  gavest  thy  life  to  God,  dear  flower,  unquestion- 
Thou  hadst  no  assurance  of  immortality  in  return.    In 

be  name  of  the  Fiither,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 

}host,  I  bless  thee,  beautiful  flower,  for  I  have  learned  of 
[bee  a  lesson  that,  by  the  grace  of  God,  will  earn  for  me  life 
ktemal.  Be  my  witness,  humble  Hose  1  be  my  witness,  angels 
|i07ering  near  me  I  I  give  my  life,  my  love,  my  bemg  through 

I  tirnea  to  thee,  my  bleeding,  suffering,  patient  Jesus  !  Hold 
t  to  my  pledge,  dear  Saviour,  by  the  might  of  thy  tenderness 
and  let  me  never  swerve  from  the  integrity  of  my  purpose, 

ound  this  day  toith  my  heart  to  thy  dear  cross!" 

13.  Night  fell  over  us  both,  and  I  slept  with  the  sweet  mur* 
Imor  of  that  voice  still  vibrathig  the  chambers  of  my  soul. 
iThrough  the  season  of  my  freshness,  I  daily  caught  the  incense 
lof  this  maiden's  devotion  arising  before  the  altar ;  and,  by  a 


138 


THR  THIRD  READER. 


seeming  chance,  after  my  leaves  had  withered  and  fadei 
was  concealed  from  the  sight  of  the  sacristan,  and  eveni 
months  lay  happily  at  the  feet  of  the  Redeemer  of  the  wo^ 
Thus  I  witnessed  the  formal  consecration  of  this  maiden  to  I 
will  of  her  chosen  one. 

14.  She  was  arrayed  in  white,  and  her  brow  was  crov 
with  bads  from  the  rose-tree  that  gave  me  birth.  She ! 
not  that  I  beheld  her  then,  but  I  felt  that  my  image  had  neij 
faded  from  her  heart.  The  pure  folds  of  her  snowy  yeili 
over  her  shoulders  like  the  plumage  of  wings  at  rest ; 
remembered  the  angel  who  had  put  to  flight  the  prince  of  i 
ness,  and  I  was  sure  he  was  near  her ;  for  her  face  had  becod 
like  his,  and  I  think  it  was  because  he  was  so  constantly! 
her  side,  and  because  she  loved  hun  so.  I  think  she  was  I 
earthly  mirror  of  l;he  heavenly  bemg  who  protected  her  fro 
danger,  and  that  her  face  and  bearing  reflected  his  beantji 
grace,  as  the  tear-drop  that  feU  upon  me  from  her  eyes  i 
fleeted  her  soul  at  that  moment. 

15.  I  never  saw  this  maiden  more ;  but  I  thmk  her 
will  lead  her  to  heaven.    Yesterday,  as  I  lay  here,  a  litl 
wilted  remnant  of  a  rose,  the  sacristan  raised  me  in  her  fin 
and  supposing  me  to  be  a  particle  of  incense  that  had  fa 
she  placed  me  m  the  censer.    Thus,  when  the  benediction  i 
this  evening  is  pronounced,  I  shall  have  fulfilled  my  miss 
and  shall  ascend  upon  the  gentle  clouds  that  then  will  ov 
shadow  the  tabernacle  of  the  Most  High. 


19.  Winter, 

rpHE  scenes  around  us  have  assumed  a  new  and  chillmg  ap 
X  pearance.  The  trees  are  shorn  of  their  foliage,  the  hedges 
are  laid  bare,  the  fields  and  favorite  walks  have  lost  theiti 
3harms,  and  the  garden,  now  that  it  yields  no  perfumes  and  I 
offers  no  fruits,  is,  like  a  friend  in  adversity,  forsaken.  The  I 
tuneful  tribes  are  dumb,  the  cattle  no  longer  play  in  the  mcad-l 
ows,  the  north  wind  blows.    ''  He  sendeth  abroad  his  ice-liue| 


WINTKR. 


139 


bis:  who  can  stand  before  his  cold?"    We  rush  in  for 

pr. 

I  But  winter  is  not  without  its  uses.    It  aids  the  system 

and  vegetation ;  it  kills  the  seeds  of  infection  ;  it  refines 
[)lood ;  it  strengthens  the  nerves ;  it  braces  the  whole 
Snow  is  a  warm  covering  for  the  grass ;  and,  while  it 
^ds  the  tender  blades  from  nipping  frosts,  it  also  nourishes 

growth.    When  the  snow  thaws,  it  becomes  a  genial 
are  to  the  soil  into  which  it  sinks ;  and  thus  the  glebe 
blenished  with  nutriment  to  produce  the  bloom  of  spring 
the  bounty  of  autumn. 


p.  Winter  has  also  its  pleasuies.    I  love  to  hear  the  roar- 

of  the  wind ;  I  love  to  see  the  figures  which  the  frost  has 

ated  on  the  glass ;  I  love  to  watch  the  redbreast  with  his 

Dder  legs,  standing  at  iae  window,  and  knockmg  with  his 

1  to  ask  for  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  the  table.  Is  it  not 

[asant  to  view  a  landscape  whitened  with  snow  ?    To  gaze 

on  the  trees  and  hedges  dressed  in  such  sparkling  lustre  ? 

behold  the  rising  sun  laboring  to  pierce  the  morning  fog, 

gradually  causing  objects  to  emerge  from  it  by  little  and 

|tle,  and  appear  in  their  owr  forms ;  while  the  mist  rolls  up 

I  side  of  the  hill  and  is  seen  no  more? 


140 


THK  THIRD  KEADRB. 


4.  Winter  is  a  season  in  which  we  should  feci  graJ 
for  our  comforts.  How  much  more  temperate  is  our  ci( 
than  that  of  many  other  countries !  Think  of  those  wli 
within  the  polar  circle,  dispersed,  exposed  to  beasts  of] 
then*  poor  huts  fumishmg  only  wretched  refuge  1 
dure  months  of  perpetual  night,  and  by  the  absence  oil 
almost  absolute  barrenness  reigns  around.  But  wef 
houses  to  defend  us,  and  clothes  to  cover  us,  and  fires  to^ 
us,  and  beds  to  comfort  us,  and  provisions  to  nourish  ns, ! 
becoming,  in  our  circumstances,  is  gratitude  to  God  I 

5.  This  season  calls  upon  us  to  exercise  benevolence, 
we  are  enjoying  every  comfoi't  which  the  tenderness  of '. 
dence  can  aJQTord,  let  us  think  of  the  mdigent  and  the  i 
Let  us  think  of  those  whose  poor  hovels  and  shattered  ] 
cannot  screen  them  front  the  pierdng  cold.  Let  us  tli 
the  old  and  the  infirm,  of  the  sibk  and  the  diseased.  OliJ 
**  the  blessmg  of  them  that  are  ready  to  pOrish  come  nponj 
Who  would  not  deny  himself  superfluities,  and  somel 
more,  that  his  bounty  may  visit  "  the  fatherless  and  thei 
ows  m  their  affliction." 

6.  This  season  Is  instructive  as  an  emblem.  Here  M 
picture  of  thy  life :  thy  flowery  spring,  thy  summer  strenj 
thy  sober  autumn,  are  all  hastemng  into  winter.  Decay  i 
death  will  soon,  very  soon,  lay  all  waste  1  What  proT 
hast  thou  made  for  the  evil  day?  Hast  thou  been  laying | 
treasure  in  heaven  ?  hast  thou  been  laboring  for  that  wea 
which  endureth  unto  everlasting  life ! 

7.  Soon  spring  will  dawn  agam  upon  us  with  its  beauty  a 
its  songs.    And  "we,  according  to  his  promise,  look  fori 
heavens  and  a  new  earth  wherein  dwelleth  righteousness." 
wjmter  there ;  but  we  shall  flourish  in  perpetual  spring,  in  eij 
ess  youth,  in  everlastmg  life  t 


■I 


THE  SNOW. 


141 


.^'>:f-^. 


20.  The  ^'now. 

1.  rpHE  snow  I  the  snow  I  'tis  a  pleasant  thing 
J-  To  watch  it  falling,  falling 
Down  npon  earth  with  noiseless  wing 

As  at  some  spirit's  callmg ; 
Each  flake  is  a  fairy  parachute, 

From  teeming  clouds  let  down; 
And  eai'th  is  still,  and  air  is  mnte, 

As  frost's  enchanted  zone. 


8.  The  snow !  the  snow ! — behold  the  trees 

Their  fingery  boughs  stretch  o  it, 
The  blossoms  of  the  sky  to  seize, 

As  they  duck  and  dive  about ; 
The  bare  hills  plead  for  a  covering, 

And,  ere  the  gray  twilight, 
Around  their  shoulders  broad  shall  cling 

An  arctic  cloak  of  white. 


142 


THE  TIIIBD  BEADEK. 


t\ 


8.  The  snow  1  the  snow ! — alas  I  to  me 

It  speaks  of  far-ofif  days, 
When  a  boyish  skater,  mingling  free 

Amid  the  merry  maze ; 
Mothinks  I  see  the  broad  ice  still, 

And  my  nerves  all  jangling  feel, 
Blending  with  tones  of  voices  shrill 

The  i-ing  of  the  slider's  heel. 

4.  The  snowl  tke  snow  I — soon  dnsky  night 
Drew  his  morky  curtains  round 

Low  earth,  while  a  star  of  lustre  bright 
Peep'd  from  the  blue  profound.  « 

Tet  what  cared  we  for  ^1^'^g  leaf 

Or  warning  belt  ««r^/   *ui,ei 
With  shout  and^ery  r -Iuj^  j&  by,  j 

And  found  the  biiM  "We  sought. 

I»   The  snow  I  the  snow  I — 'twas  ours  to  wag«^ 

How  oft,  a  mimic  war. 
Each  white  ball  tossingin  wild  rage, 

That  left  a  gorgeous  scar ; 
While  doublets  dark  were  powdw'd  o'er, 

Till  darkness  none 'could  find,    ' 
And  valorous  chiefs  had  wounds  before, 

And  caitiff  chiefs  behind. 


5.  The  snow  I  the  snow  I — I  see  him  yet, 

That  piled-up  giant  grim, 
To  startle  horse  and  traveller  set, 

With  Titan  gurth  of  limb. 
We  hoped,  oh,  ice-ribb'd  Winter  bright  I 

Thy  sceptre  could  have  screen'd  him ; 
But  traitor  Thaw  stole  forth  by  night. 

And  cruelly  guillotined  him  t 

7.  The  snow !  the  snow  I — Lo  I  Eve  reveals 
Her  starr'd  map  to  the  moon, 


USES   OV   WATBB. 


148 


And  o'ei  hush'd  earth  a  radiance  steals 
More  bland  than  that  of  noon ; 

The  fur-robed  genii  of  the  Pole 
Darce  o'er  oar  mountains  white, 

Chain  up  the  billows  as  thej  roll, 
And  pearl  the  caves  with  light. 

8.  The  snow !  the  snow  1 — It  brings  to  mind 

A  thousand  happy  things; 
And  but  one  sad  one — 'tis  to  find 

Too  sure  that  Time  hath  wings  I  , 
Oh,  ever  sweet  is  sight  or  sound. 

That  tells  of  long  ago, 
And  I  gaze  around  with  thoughts  profound, 

Upon  tl^and' '^'"  ""®'^* 


21.  TTsss  OF  Water. 

I OW  common,  and  yet  how  beautiful  and  how  pure,  is  a 
drop  of  water  I   See  it,^  as  it  issues  from  the  rock  to  sup- 
|the  spring  and  the  stream  below.    See  how  its  meander- 
through  the  plams,  and  its  torrents  over  the  cliffs,  add 
Jthe  richness  and  the  beauty  of  the  landscape.    Look  into 
factory  standing  by  a  waterfall,  in  which  every  drop  is 
fal  to  perform  its  part,  and  hear  the  groaning  and  rust- 
[of  the  wheels,  the  clattering  of  shuttles,  and  the  buzz  of 
B,  which,  under  the  direction  of  their  fair  attendants, 
I  sapplymg  myriads  of  fur  purchasers  with  fabrics  from  the 
^ton-plant,  the  sheep,  and  the  silkworm. 
Is  any  one  so  stupid  as  not  to  admire  the  splendor  of 
nunbow,  or  so  ignorant  as  not  to  know  that  it  is  pro- 
Iced  by  drops  of  water,  as  they  break  away  from  the  clouds 
|ich  had  confined  them,  and  are  making  a  quick  visit  to  our 
th  to  renew  its  verdure  and  increase  its  animation  ?    How 
JBfol  ia  the  gentle  dew,  in  its  nightly  visits,  to  allay  the 
brching  heat  of  a  summer's  sun  I 
|3.  And  the  autumn's  firost,  how  beautifoUy  it  bedecks  tb4 


144 


THE  THIRD   RKAU£B. 


trees,  the  shrubs,  and  the  (^rass  :  though  it  strips  them  of  i 
summer's  verdure,  and  warns  them  that  they  must  boon 
ccive  the  buffetings  of  the  winter's  tempest !  This  igi 
water,  which  has  given  up  its  transparency  for  its  beai 
whiteness  and  its  elegant  crystals.  The  snow,  too, —  vbj 
that  but  these  same  pure  drops,  thrown  into  crystals  by  I 
tcr's  icy  hand?  and  does  not  the  first  summer's  sun  re| 
them  to  the  same  limpid  drops  ? 

4.  The  majestic  river,  and  the  boiuidless  ocean, — what] 
they?    Are  they  not  made  of  drops  of  water?    Hovl 
river  steadily  pursues  its  course  from  the  motmtain'sl 
down  the  declivity,  over  the  cli£f,  and  through  the  plain,! 
ing  with  it  every  thing  in  its  course  I     How  many  ni^ 
ships  does  the  ocean  float  upon  its  bosom  I    How  manyf 
sport  in  its  waters  1    How  does  it^Srma  a  lodging-place] 
the  Amazon,  the  Mississippi,  the  Da£be.^  the  Rhine,  the  I 
ges,  the  Lena,  and  the  H<nii^  Ho  f 

6.  How  piercmg  are  these  pure  limpid  drops !  How  < 
they  find  their  way  into  the  depths  of  the  earth,  and  ctchiI 
solid  rock  I  How  many  thousand  streams,  hidden  from  ( 
view  by  mountain  masses,  are  steadily  pursuing  theur  com 
deep  from  the  surface  which  forms  our  standing-place  for 
few  short  days  1  In  the  air,  too,  how  it  diffuses  it: 
Where  can  a  particle  of  air  be  found,  which  does  not  m 
an  atom  of  water  ?  I 

6.  How  much  would  a  famishing  man  give  for  a  few  of  tb 
pure  limpid  drops  of  water  I  And  where  do  we  use  it  in  < 
daUy  sustenance  ?  or  rather,  where  do  we  not  use  it  ?  TVii 
portion  of  the  food  that  we  have  taken  during  our  lives, 
not  contain  it  ?  What  part  of  our  body,  which  limb,  vlii 
organ,  is  not  moistened  with  this  same  faithful  servant  ?  E(j 

s  our  blood,  that  free  liquid,  to  (jrculate  through  our  veif 
without  it  ? 

7.  How  gladly  does  the  faithful  horse,  or  the  patient  o!,| 
his  toilsome  journey,  arrive  at  the  water's  brink  !  Andi 
faithful  dog,  patiently  followng  his  master's  track,— tow  e 
gerly  does  he  lap  the  water  from  the  clear  fountam  he  me< 
in  his  way  I 


THB  DTINO  CHRISTIAN   TO   UI8  HOUL. 


145 


^ean,— what 
er?    Howl 
lountain's 
the  plain  J 
many  mijj 
ow  m&njt 
^ging-place] 
ihine,  thei 

»psl  Hoirl 
hi  and  erall 
dden  fronn 
f  their  com 
ng-place  fo^ 
diffuses  Hi 
>es  not  com 

a  few  of  tli 
B  use  it  in  i 
>it  ?  Wii 
our  lives,  ( 
h  limb,  wlii 
viint?  H(| 
gh  our  Tfli 


Whose  heart  ought  not  to  overflow  with  gratitude  to 
abundant  Giver  of  this  pure  liquid,  which  his  own  hand 
deposited  in  the  deep,  and  diffused  through  the  floating 
and  the  solid  earth  ?  Is  it  the  farmer,  whose  fields,  by 
gentle  dew  and  the  abundant  rain,  bring  forth  fatness  ? 
lit  the  mechanic,  whose  saw,  lathe,  sphdle,  and  shuttle  are 
J>Tcd  by  this  faithful  servant  ? 

[9.  Is  it  the  merchant,  on  his  return  firom  the  noise  and  the 
plexities  of  business,  to  the  table  of  his  family,  richly  sup- 
ped with  the  varieties  and  the  luxuries  of  the  four  quarters 
the  globe,  produced  by  the  abundant  rain,  and  transported 
^rosB  the  mighty  but  yielding  ocean  ? 
10.  Is  it  the  physician,  on  his  admmistering  to  his  patient 
bme  gentle  be*,  erage,  or  a  more  active  healer  of  the  disease 
htch  threatens  t     Is  it  the  priest,  whose  profession  it  is  to 
ake  others  feel — and  that  oy  feeling  himself,  that  the  slight- 
st  favor  and  the  richest  blessing  are  from  the  same  source, 
Dd  from  the  same  abundant  andconstant  Giver  ?   Who,  that 
till  has  a  glass  of  water  and  a  crumb  of  bread,  is  net  uu- 
Ettefnl  to  complain  ? 


The  Dying  Chbistian  to  bis  Soul. 

1.  TTITAL  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 

T    Quit,  oh,  quit  this  mortal  fhtme  1 
T^mblii^,  hoping,  lingermg,  flying, 
Oh,  the  pab,  the  bliss  of  dying  1 
Oease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

2.  Harkt  they  whisper;  angels  say, 
Sister  Spirit,  come  away ; 
What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite  T 
Steals  my  senses,  shnts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  sphits,  draws  my  breath : 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  7 

7 


146 


TUB  THIRD  BKADSS. 


8.  The  world  recedes ;  it  diBsppeara  f 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  I  my  ears 

"W  ith  sounds  seraphio  ring. 
Lend,  lend  your  wings ;  I  moont,  I  Qy  % 
0  Grave  t  where  is  thy  victory! 

0  Death  I  where  is  thy  sting  t 


22.  H'lioht  into  Eotpt. 


HEROD  was  impatient  for  the  sages'  return  Arom  Beth 
hem,  till  finding  they  had  slighted  the  charge  he  gari 
them,  and  were  gone  home  another  way,  he  was  hurried  intti 
a  transport  of  anger,  which  deluged  the  country  with  innoceul 
blood.  By  an  act,  the  most  inhuman  that  ever  was  done  hj, 
the  worst  of  tyrants,  he  has  shown  the  world  what  his  inten-l 
tion  was,  when  he  so  diligently  interrogated  the  sages,  and  so] 
strictly  ordered  them  to  bring  him  back  an  account  of  the  child] 
they  were  in  quest  of. 

2.  But  God,  who  laughs  at  man's  presumptuous  folly,  si- 
lently defeated  the  tyrant's  malice,  and  made  his  bloody  craeltj  | 
instrumental  to  the  glory  of  the  innocent.    An  angel  in  the  I 
night  informed  Joseph  of  the  murderous  design  that  Herod ' 
had  upon  the  child's  life,  and  admonished  him  to  save  both 
hiiA  and  tme  mother  by  a  speedy  flight  into  Egypt.    Joseph 
in  thii  iMtance  is  a  perfect  model  of  that  prompt  obedience 
whicb  «H>ry  Ghnstian  owes  to  the  commands  of  God.    He 
was  coamiMMled  to  rise  that  moment,  to  leave  his  native  conn- 
try,  and  iy  off  with  the  child  and  his  mother,  not  towards  the 
sages,  <^  to  any  friendly  nation,  but  into  Egypt,  aiudst  the 
iddatro;  ^  9aA  natural  enemies  of  the  Jewish  people. 

.3.  The  tender  a^e  of  the  infant,  the  delicate  compleslon  of 
the  virgin  mother,  seemdd  to  require  every  comfc^  that  his 
own  pri\  ate  dwelling  could  have  afforded.  But  titat  sleadei 
comfort  wui  to  be  giv«a  up ;  it  was  dark  nii^t,  and  bo  time 


\,  Herod  bege 
Atened  by  di 
It  would  have 
L«  for  every ' 
[t  years,  in  an 
jrbarous  shifta 
lliticsl  An  I' 
lembie  upon  W 
tt,hodrenwhe« 
>iiB  destructi* 

mm  of  ^**^ 

koymcnt  of  » 

6.  But  no  1 

al  enjoymeni 

^hile  it  opem 

loke:  nor  c 

!t  it ;  amids 

lone  escaped 

1  No  mal 

lecrces  of  ( 

)\ease8  to  d 

rhole  world 


FLIGHT  INTO  K0T1»T. 


147 


!  lost  in  making  provisioD  for  a  long  and  laborious  Journey. 

J  faithful  guardian  of  the  Word  Incarnate  rone  upon  the 

[notice  that  was  given  him,  punctually  fulfilled  every  tittle 

be  order,  took  the  child  and  bis  mother,  and  set  off  for 

pt,  uncertain  when  or  whether  he  should  ever  return  or 

The  love  he  bore  to  Jesas,  the  desire  he  had  of  serving 

I  to  the  extent  of  his  power,  softened  every  hardship,  and 

je  him  forget  the  labors  of  an  unexpected  banishment. 

1.  The  divine  Jesus  might  have  rendered  himself  invisible, 

\j  a  visible  exertion  of  his  power  might  have  disarmed 

hd,  as  he  did  Pharaoh  in  ancient  times ;  but  he  chose  to 

[for  the  encouragement  of  those  who  were  afterwards  to 

br  banishment  for  his  sake ;  by  his  own  example  he  would 

[met  bis  followers,  that  in  the  heat  of  persecution  they 

laudably  fly  to  save  their  lives,  in  hopes  of  some  future 

Herod  began  to  rage  with  all  the  violence  that  Jealousy, 

;htened  by  disappointment,  could  inspire.    With  a  cruelty 

|it  would  have  shocked  the  miA«t  savage  barbarian,  ho  gave 

jm  for  every  male  child  tWat  had  been  bom  within  the  two 

ft  years,  in  and  about  I9«t)ilehem,  to  be  killed.    To  such 

irbarous  shifts  was  t^  admbitious  monarch  driven  by  his 

(litics!    An  innocent)  babe,  be  knew  not  who,  made  him 

emble  upon  lus  tluN«e ;  he  tried  his  utmost  skill  to  find  hun 

ht,  ho  drem;hed  tlw  country  with  harmless  blood  to  make  sure 

rjiis  destruction,  he  filled  the  air  with  the  shrieks  and  lamen- 

pons  of  diaoonaolate  mothers,  that  he  might  draw  out  the 

pjojment  of  a  crown  to  a  somewhat  greater  length. - 

6.  But  DO  honors  purchased  by  such  crimes  could  give  any 
al  enjoymrat.    His  cruelty  heaped  confusion  upon  himself, 

^hile  it  opened  the  gate  of  happiness  to  those  who  felt  its 
oke :  nor  ooold  it  n^  beyond  the  bonuds  that  God  had 
et  it ;  amidst  the  thousands  of  slaughtered  innocents.  He 
done  escaped,  who  alone  was  aimed  at. 

7.  No  malidous  efforts  of  the  wicked  can  ever  frustrate  the 
decrees  of  God;  their  hatred  or  their  love  become,  as  he 
pleases  to  direct,  the  instruments  of  his  holy  designs;  the 
rhole  world,  combined  with  all  the  powern  of  darkness,  can 


148 


THB  TIIIKU   RKADKR. 


DOTer  stop  the  execution  of  what  an  omnipotent  Frovij 
has  once  decreed. 

8.  If  once  assured  of  the  divine  will,  we  have  but  toi 
it  without  fear :  if  in  the  station  of  our  duty  we  have  anytj 
to  suffer,  we  suffer  for  justice*  sake.    Herod's  cruelty  I 
the  glory  of  the  innocents :  his  sword  could  hurt  their  1 
only ;  their  souls  were  sanctified  by  the  effusion  of  their  ]^ 
their  memory  through  every  age  is  celebrated  on  earth;  I 
reign  eternally  with  God  in  heaven. 


14.  Alas,  all 

Whyl 

"Wert  til 

Whei 


33.  The  Fbekp  Bird. 

1.  "p  ETURN,  return,  my  bird  I 

Xv  I  have  dress'd  thy  cage  with  flowers, 

'lis  lovely  as  a  violet  bank 
In  the  heart  of  forest  bowers. 

2.  "  I  am  free,  I  am  free, — I  return  no  more  I 
The  weary  time  of  the  cage  is  o'er  I 
Through  the  rolling  clouds  I  can  soar  on  high, 
The  sky  is  around  me — the  blue- bright  sky  I 

8.  "  The  hills  lie  beneath  me,  spread  far  and  dear. 
With  their  glowing  heath-flowers  and  bounding  deer, 
I  see  the  waves  flash  on  the  sunny  shore — 
I  am  fipee,  I  am  free, — I  return  no  more  1" 


"From 
Through 
And  its  < 
Sigh'dfc 

1.  Wasi 
Tel 
Ihavi 
In5 

"Itflasi 
With  tl 
With  tl 
Woo  ID 

I9.  "Myt 
Mykii 
Andtl 
Andt 

10  Fai 

] 

An 


111.  "If^ 
Thoi 
The; 
Toi 


THB  FREED   BIBD. 


149 


14.  Alaa,  alas,  my  bird  I 

Why  seek'st  thoa  to  be  free? 
Wert  thou  not  blest  in  thy  little  bower, 
When  thy  song  breathed  nanght  bnt  glee? 

"  Did  my  song  of  summer  breathe  nanght  bnt  gleet 
Did  the  voice  of  the  captive  seem  sweet  to  thee? 
Oh  1  hadst  thou  known  its  deep  meaning  well, 
It  had  tales  of  a  bummg  heart  to  tell. 

"From  a  dream  of  the  forest  that  music  sprang, 
Through  its  notes  the  peal  of  a  torrent  rang ; 
And  its  dying  fall,  when  it  soothed  thee  best, 
Slgh'd  for  wild  flowers  and  a  leafy  nest." 

7.  Was  it  with  thee  thus,  my  bird? 

Yet  thine  eye  flash'd  clear  and  bright  I 
I  have  seen  the  glance  of  the  sudden  joy 
In  its  quick  and  dewy  light. 

"  It  flash'd  with  the  flre  of  a  tameless  race. 
With  the  soul  of  the  wild  wood,  my  native  place  I 
With  the  spirit  that  panted  through  heaven  to  soar-— 
Woo  me  not  back — I  return  no  more  I 

1 9.  "  My  home  is  high,  amidst  rocking  trees. 
My  kindred  things  are  the  star  and  breeze. 
And  the  fount  unchecked  in  its  lonely  play. 
And  the  odors  that  wander  afar — away  I" 

10  Farewell,  farewell,  thou  bud  1 
I  have  calPd  on  spirits  gone, 
And  it  may  b9  they  joy  like  thee  to  part, 
Like  thee  that  wert  all  my  own. 

1 1.  "  If  they  were  captives,  and  pined  like  me. 

Though  love  might  calm  them,  they  joy'd  to  be  ftee ; 
They  sprung  from  the  earth  with  a  burst  of  power. 
To  the  strength  of  their  wings,  to  their  triumph's  hour. 


150 


THE  IHIRD   READER. 


I 


12. 


"  Gall  them  not  bock  when  the  chain  is  rlren, 
When  the  way  of  the  pinion  is  all  through  heaven. 
Farewell !    With  my  song  through  the  clouds  1 8oii;| 
[  pierce  the  blue  skies — I  am  earth's  no  more !" 


24.  Deoollatioit  of  St.  John. 

ALTHOUGH  the  doctrine  of  our  blessed  Saviour  wa8( 
pure  in  its  prindples,  so  conformable  to  reaM)n,  so  i 
8ru!cd  by  miracles,  and  so  pleasing  in  its  promises  of  eten 
glory,  yet  few  embraced  it.  A  general  increduUty  and  ob 
r&cj  of  heart  prevailed  in  the  cities  of  Judea,  and  in  no  i 
more  than  in  that  of  Nazareth. 

2.  It  was  natural  to  imagine  that  the  Nazarenes  woil 
have  thought  themselves  in  some  sort  honored  by  the  fame^ 
one  who  had  lived  and  grown  up  among  them,  and  that  tb 
would  have  cherished  him  as  the  most  valuable  of  their  i 
zens.    Their  behavior  was  diametrically  the  opposite.    Tbi}] 
had  seen  and  conversed  with  him  from  his  youth ;  they 
no  leammg  that  he  had  acquired ;  in  his  figure  they  discoven 
nothmg  that  set  him  above  the  common  level ;  in  his  motb 
and  relations  they  beheld  no  title  that  distinguished  him  fron| 
the  poorer  class-  of  the  people. 

3.  To  his  doctrine,  therefore,  they  would  give  no  credit,  not) 
would  they  allow  his  miracles  which  they  had  not  seen.  The! 
great  reputation  which  Jesus  had  acquired  among  othen] 
made  them  jealous,  and  their  jealousy  grew  into  a  violent! 
antipathy  against  him. 

4.  They  laid  hands  upon  him,  and  led  him  to  the  steep  point  I 
of  the  rock  on  which  their  town  was  built,  with  an  intention  I 
to  throw  him  headlong  down.  But  the  hour  for  Jesus  to  die| 
was  not  yet  come,  and  no  hum{i,n  malice  could  advance  it. 
He  slipped  out  of  their  hands,  and  walked  away  thipugh  the  | 
midst  of  them. 

5.  This  perverse  incredulity  of  the  Nazarenes  hindered  Jeuoi  I 
from  working  any  miracles  among  them,  excepting  the  cure  o( 


DECOLLATION  OF  ST.   JOHN. 


161 


ae  of  their  sick,  which  he  did  by  imposing  his  hands  upon 

em.    On  his  return  from  Nazareth,  he  was  informed  of  John 

!  Baptist's  death. 

1 6.  A  short  time  before  this  St.  John  had  been  cast  into 

(isoQ  on  account  of  the  reprimand  he  gave  to  King  Herod, 

his  incestnons  connection  with  Herodias,  the  wife  of  his 

other  Philip.    Herodias  had  often  solicited  the  king  to  hav 
put  to  death,  and  the  king  as  often  refused  to  consent 
|)t  only  from  a  principle  of  esteem  for  the  holy  man,  but  like- 
from  a  fear  of  the  people's  resentment,  for  they  venerated 
b  Baptist  as  a  wonderful  prophet. 

7.  Eh  -  iVa  imprudence  betrayed  hun  soon  after  to  com- 
mit the  b?<t.'    eed.    He  celebrated  his  bu*thday  with  great 

th  and  magnificen<!e ;  a  grand  entertainment  was  prepared, 
Dd  the  chief  men  of  Galilee  were  invited  to  attend ;  the 
anghter  of  Herodias  was  introduced  before  the  company,  and 

sired  to  dance. 

S.'^The  manner  of  her  performance  so  pleased  the  king,  that 
^e  rashly  promised  upon  oath  to  give  whatsoever  she  should 
sk,  though  it  were  half  his  kingdom.  The  girl  immediately 
bft  the  room  to  consult  her  mother  what  she  should  ask. 
I' Go  and  ask  for  thi&  head  of  John  the  Baptist,''  replied  the 
Mteress. 

9.  The  girl  ran  back  to  Herod,  and  desured  that  he  would 
forthwith  give  her  on  a  dish  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist. 
Strack  at  the  unnatural  request,  the  king  was  sorry  for  the 

[rash  promise  he  had  made,  but,  out  of  respect  to  the  company, 
[resolved  to  keep  his  oath,  not  to  displease  the  daughter  of 
Herodias.    He  therefore  ordered  an  executioner  to  go  forth- 
with to  the  prison,  and  cut  off  the  Baptist's  head.    The  head 
was  given  in  a  dish  to  the  girl,  and  the  girl  presented  it  to 
I  her  mother. 

10.  Thus  was  the  great  precursor  of  our  Lord  impiously 
I  slain  in  the  vigor  of  life;  thus  was  John  murdered  by  the 

sword  oi*Herod,  who  had  always  admired  and  esteemed  him 
for  his  purity  of  doctrine  and  sanctity  of  morals.  Herod  fell 
not  all  at  once  into  the  enormity  of  guilt ;  by  gradual  steps  he 
had  advanced  towards  the  depth  of  crime ;  one  excess  had 


152 


THK   THIKI)    KEADKR. 


led  liim  on  to  another ;  a  lur.tful  passion  opened  the  mil 
incest,  and  incest  plrmged  him  into  morder 

11.  Herod  was  permitted  to  take  away  the  life  of  St.  Jii 
the  Baptist,  greater  than  whom  no  prophet  had  ever  i^ 
among  the  sons  of  women. 

12.  The  life  of  that  holy  man  was  sacrificed  to  the  capridgj 
revenge  of  a  wicked  woman ;  it  was  sacrificed  for  a 
Ilonce  we  see,  says  St.  Gregory,  in  what  light  we  are  to  ( 
sider  this  mortal  life,  which  is  so  liable  to  misfoi  tunes,  and  J 
miserably  harassed  by  the  suspicions,  by  the  hatred,  and  I 
slanders  of  wicked  m^x 

13.  It  is  to  a-future  life  that  we  should  constantly  looki 
a  life  which  neither  the  tongue  of  sktnder,  nor  the  sword  i 
persecution  can  affSBct.    Tyrants  may  rage  and  threaten ; 
may  crumble  these  mortal  bodies  into  dust;  but  a 
death  will  open  us  an  entrance  into  that  heavenly  kingdoi 
where  the  blessed  know  no  change  and  fear  no  decay. 


25.  Satubdat  Aftbbnoon. 

1.  T  LOYE  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 
JL  Of  wild  and  careless  play, 

And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 
And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray; 

For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 
And  makes  his  pulses  fly. 

To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 
And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

2.  I  have  walk'd  the  world  for  fourscore  years : 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old. 
That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well-nigh  told. 
It  is  very  true ;  it  is  very  true ; 

I'm  old,  and  "  I  'bide  my  time :" 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 


8.  PM 
II 

led 


SATURDAY    AFfEUNoCN. 


158 


|>Penod  the  wa;j 

JelifeofStjJ 
9t  had  erepi 

J  *o  the  caprijj 
M  for  a  dm 
pt  we  are  too, 
fijbi  tones,  and  j 
'hatred,  and  I 

wtantljlook, 
^'  tie  sword, 
» threaten; 
;  bnt  a  p^ 

^^e%  fangd, 


8.  Play  on,  play  on ;  I  am  with  you  there, 
In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring ; 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump. 
And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 


.WVM. 


Mr^ 


fieart, 


Jars: 
th, 


l^^^< 


I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 
And  I  whoop  the  smother'd  call, 

And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 
And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

4.  T  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come. 
And  I  shall  be  glad  to  c:^  : 


t54 


THK  TIITKD   KKADRK. 

For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low ; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness. 

To  see  the  yonng  so  gay. 


26.   LbABNINO  and  AoCOMPLISHHENTB  not  INOONSISIOn] 
WITH  QOGD  HOUSBKBBFINO.' 

[Biiplanatorjf  NoU. — ^Mr.  Benny  tells  this  story;  Marcella  Is  Mr.  Ben-I 
ny'a  wife  ;  Clnra  is  their  daughter.  Justin  and  Laura  are  Mr.  and  Un.| 
Hubert,  who  haye  just  oome  ou  a  visit  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Benny,  anil 
Mary  is  their  daughter.  Aunt  Bobert  is  the  aunt  of  Mr.  and  Mn,| 
Benny.] 

MABY  has  accompanied  her  parents ;  her  first  appearance 
gives  a  punfol  impression.  She  is  small,  thm,  and  very 
sallow :  almost  ugly.  Lanra  and  Jnstin  presented  her  to  me 
without  a  word,  and  during  the  first  two  days,  I  took  scarcely 
any  notice  of  her ;  but  the  other  morning,  I  heard  her  con- 
versing in  German  with  her  father ;  and  I  know  that  she  i<i 
acqnunted  with  the  English  and  Spanish  languages.* 
'  2.  Marcella  obliged  her  to  seat  herself  at  the  piano ;  and 
we  soon  perceived  that  she  has  already  far  outstripped  her 
mother.  She  has  also  learned  all  that  can  be  taught  to  one 
of  her  age,  of  geography,  and  natural  and  political  history. 
Clara  is  in  a  state  of  bewilderment  at  such  an  amount  of 
learning,  and  I  am  still  more  surprised  at  so  much  modesty. 

8.  The  latter,  however,  does  not  soften  Aunt  Bobert ;  who, 
when  she  was  informed  of  the  number  of  Mary's  acquirements, 
only  shook  her  head.  Aunt  Bobert's  prejudices,  on  that 
point,  are  not  to  be  overcome.  She  is  suspicious,  almost  to 
hoHtility,  of  all  those  who  are,  what  she  styles,  learned  women. 
A  ecording  to  her,  literary  studies  are  perfectly  ^reconcilable 
with  household  duties.    No  one  can  understand  orthography 


^  backstitch  I 

jtherto"8*®' 
14  ««0h,ye8' 

Ld  to  Marcel] 

;,ina  with  theij 

innot  uudersta 

ith  accoriusy  t 

nowbowtotij 

[y  dear  girl;  * 
t-epers  to  the 
5.  Notwithsl 
[aiy  like  everj 
imiliar  klndnj 
lorny  goosew 
and  a  few  set 
6.  For  the 
[he  young  fff 
rhims,  and  la 
i  footstool, 
toad  of  her. 

ieally  is  i^^ 
[been  taught  n 

1.  Consequ 

Ifeel  the  incoi 

vited  us  to  d 

Mary  to  con 

spite  the  ire 

'  given,  it  wat 

8.  Aunt 

of  the  little 

.ng  royalty 

with  ati  an 

busy  makija 

9.  Now 

piimacle  of 

She  bee 

to  her  the 

wi 


LEARNING  AND  A0GOMPLISUMI£NTS. 


155 


loesg, 


>«  Mr.  and  Mm 
"•Benny,  anj 

*"^'  wid  Mn, 

*  appeaniDce 
N»  and  Teiy 
«  her  to  me  / 
'Ook  scarcely ! 
^rd  her  coii^  f 
that  she  « 

piano ;  anj 
Wpped  her 
ight  to  one 
al  history, 
amoant  0/ 
lodesty. 
ert;  who, 
lirements, 
on  that 
ilmost  to 
1  women, 
oncilable 
'ograph^ 


backstitch  too,  or  speak  ai^  other  language  bat  onr 

)tber  tongae,  and  saperintend  a  roast. 

1 4.  "Oh,  yes !  I  have  seen  yoor  little  prodigies  before,"  she 

a  to  Marcella,  yesterday,  "who  talk  aboat  revolutions  in 
luina  with  theur  stockings  in  holes ;  who  read  poetry,  and  yet 
Innot  Qoderstand  the  receipt  of  a  padding ;  who  will  describe 
jith  accuracy  the  costume  of  the  African  savage,  and  do  not 

now  bpw  to  trim  a  cap !  do  not  talk  to  me  of  such  women, 
ly  dear  gurl ;  the  very  best  they  are  good  for,  is  to  be  lodge- 
^•epers  to  the  French  Academy. 

5.  Notwithstanding   these  strong   prejudices,  she  treats 

[ary  like  everybody  else ;  that  is  to  say,  with  her  usual  rude, 

uuiliar  kindness;  for  Aunt  Bobert  compares  herself  to  a 

[horny  gooseberry  bush :  to  get  at  the  fruit,  people  must  not 

lind  a  few  scratches. 

6.  For  the  rest,  these  peculiarities  do  not  seem  to  disturb 
|he  young  girl  in  the  least :  she  laughs  at  the  old  lady's 
rhims,  and  is  the  first  to  offer  to  carry  her  bag,  or  fetch  her 

footstool.  I  have  reason  to  believe  the  good  aunt  is  very 
k'ond  of  her.  "After  all,"  she  said,  the  other  day,  "there 
really  is  good  in  the  child,  and  it  is  not  her  fault  it  she  has 
[been  taught  more  grammar  than  cookery." 

1.  Consequently,  she  has  been  very  anxious  to  make  her 
|fet;l  the  inconveniences  of  her  education.  Yesterday  she  in- 
vited us  to  dine  with  the  Huberts  at  her  house,  and  begged 
^Mary  to  come  early  and  assist  her  in  her  preparations.  De- 
spite the  ironical  manner  in  which  the  latter  invitation  was 
'given,  it  was  accepted. 

8.  Aunt  Robert  was  determmed  to  display  before  the  eyes 
of  the  little  blue-stocking  all  the  splendor  of  her  house-kecp- 
.ng  royalty ;  and  Mary  found  her  enveloped  in  a  large  apron 
with  an  ample  bib,  her  sleeves  turned  up  above  her  elbows 
biisj  making  a  favorite  dish. 

9.  Now  in  the  opinion  of  the  best  judges,  this  dish  was  the 
pinnacle  of  glory  in  Aunt  Roberts'  culinary  art. 

She  beckoned  tc  Mary  to  approach,  and  after  explaining 
to  her  the  particular  merits  and  difficulties  of  her  dish,  pro* 
ceeded  with  her  cookery. 


156 


THE  TIIIRl)    READKK. 


10.  "Yoa  see,  my  dear,"  mixing,  in  her  oiotherl7iH.iQQa,t?  yo 
moral  precepts  and  practical  explanations,  "one  of  the  dHfBabell" 
daties  of  a  woman  is  to  make  the  most  of  every  thiii|V  n  j^  is  a  f) 
(Keep  the  whites  of  the  eggs  for  another  occasion.  )--Li{(H^  ^q  long 
made  for  something  more  than  learning  to  coi^agate  the  tqH  g  «  Fad('' 
I  vxdk,  or  I  talk;  to  assure  to  those  around  us  Stealth iH^^w,  "K 
comfort — (don't  put  in  too  much  lemon  juice) ; — when  (H^^jg^t  they  m< 
makes  it  a  principle  to  be  useful — (the  crust  is  beginning^,  ^^  ^)iat 
rise), — it  is  sufficient  to  keep  peace  and  a  good  consciem 
(we  put  the  whole  into  a  mould), — and  we  live  happily-(| 
the  Dutch  oven)." 

11.  Maiy  smUmgly  looked  on,  not  a  little  bewildered  by 
odd  mixture  of  philosophy  and  cookery ;  and  this  tune, 
the  first  most  certainly  injured  the  second ;  for  a  thing  unhi 
of  before,  just  when  Aunt  Robert,  being  of  opinion 
it  was  done  enough,  with  serene  confidence  opened  the  o 
door,  intending  to  display  before  her  pupil's  eyes  her  sparklii 
pyramid,  she  found  nothhig  but  a  crumbled  ruin  blackened  bj^ 
the  fire ! 

12.  The  disappointment  was  the  greater,  because  complete-] 
ly  unexpected.  Besides,  dinner-time  was  drawing  near,  uj 
the  dish  would  have  taken  more  time  to  make  again  thaa  m 
could  ipare. 


27.  Lbarnino  and  Aooohplishments — continued. 

AUNT  ROBERT  had  to  go  out  and  make  several  purchaser, 
to  look  after  the  servant,  a  new  hand  Whose  experience 
she  more  than  doubted,  in  uncovering  the  drawing-room  furni- 
ture and  laymg  the  cloth.  She  was  speaking  with  resigned 
repugnance  of  resorting  to  the  direful  extremity  of  applying  to 
the  neighboring  pastry-cook,  when  Mary  quietly  proposed  to 
replace  the  missing  dish  with  one  of  her  own  making. 

2.  Aunt  Robert  actually  started  with  surprise. 

**  What !  my  dear  child  1  do  you  know  what  you  are  say 
ing?"  she  asked ;  "  is  it  possible  that  you  can  make  any  tbinn 


ith  any  ing^^ 

4.  Bat  " 

^boatitwith< 

.  ibert  retur 
indaing  read; 
6.  Its  app( 
After  examii 
[little  nod  of  i 
its  looks,"  Ba 
tastes;  for  y 
the  eating.* 
vithottt  caps 
6.  But  a  1 
of  tl- 8  china 
remained  oi 
Bobert,  ace 
do  nothing 
mother  was 
humble  cot 
their  meani 
garden,  wl 
which  she  < 
by  the  mis 
1.  The 
fashioned 

were  all 

MaTyad( 

the  elegfl 

ehells  to 

but  she 


LBARNINO   AND  AOOOMPLISDMBNTS. 


167 


tr  motherlj 
lone  of  the 
K  every  thL 

Jugate  then 
M  08  health 

fee);— when 
is  beginnlDp 
|od  conscienc 
We  happijjr-./J 

5wildered  hji 
this  time,  al 
a  thing  anhe 
>f  opinion 
pened  theovi 
Jsherspariia 


sanse  compfc  J 
^g  near,  ai^f 
>Sain  than  M 


ontintied. 

alpurchaswj 

8  experience! 
>room  furni- 
tth  resigned! 
aj^ljing  to 
►roposed  to  j 

a  are  m 

'  any  thin« 


to  eat?  yon,  who  can  speak  all  the  langnages  of  the  Tower 
Babel  1" 

"It  is  a  family  padding,  which  always  sncceeds,  and  does 
lot  take  long  to  make,"  replied  the  yonng  ^1. 

3.  "  Padding  1"  repeated  Aant  Robert  a  little  contempt* 
onsly.  "Ah I  I  understand;  it  is  some  foreign  dish,  like 
bat  they  make  in  England.    Very  well,  Miaa  Hnbert  1  let 

see  what  yon  will  prodnce ;  the  servant  shaU  supply  you 
ith  any  ingredients  you  may  require." 

4.  But  Mary  assured  her  she  had  all  she  wanted,  ahd  set 
iboat  it  without  more  delay.    Half  an  hour  after,  when  Aunt 

ibert  returned  fh)m  making  her  purchases,  she  found  the 
indding  ready  for  the  table. 

5.  Its  appearance  was  such  as  to  strike  the  eye  of  a  judge. 
After  examining  it  well,  and  inhaling  the  odor,  she  gave  a 
little  nod  of  satisfaction.  "There  is  nothing  to  be  said  against 
its  looks,"  said  she.  "  I  should  only  like  now  to  see  how  it 
tastes ;  for  you  know  '  that  the  proof  of  the  pudding  lies  in 
the  eating.'  However,*  I  see,  my  dear  child,  you  are  not 
without  capabiUties ;  now  come  and  help  me  with  the  dessert." 

6.  But  a  firesh  trouble  arose.  The  servant  had  broken,  one 
of  the  china  baskets,  indiroensable  to  the  service ;  and  there 
remained  only  the  broken  pieces  on  the  sideboard.  Aunt 
Robert,  accustomed  to  the  old-fashioned  arrangement,  could 
do  nothing  without  her  basket ;  but  Mary,  who  with  her 
mother  was  obliged  to  resort  to  all  sorts  of  e3q)edients  in  their 
hnmble  cottage,  where  the  richness  of  taste  hid  the  poverty  of 
their  means,  dedared  she  could  arrange  it  all.  She  ran  to  the 
garden,  whence  she  gathered  leaves,  flowers,  and  fruits,  with 
which  she  dressed  the  table,  and  hid  the  discrepancy  occaaoned 
by  the  missing  basket. 

7.  The  fine  damask,  Aunt  Robert's  especial  pride,  the  old- 
fashioned  crystal,  iae  many-oolored  china,  and  antique  plate, 
were  all  most  elegantly  and  tastefully  arranged;  and  then 
Mary  added  all  the  graceful  fancies  which  impart  so  much  to 
the  elegance  of  a  well-arrang^  table,  down  ftom  the  butter  in 
shells  to  bouquets  of  radishes.  Aunt  Robert  was  bewildered  *, 
but  she  was  still  more  so,  when  all  the  dishes,  being  served  at 


158 


THR  TIIIBD  BBAOBR. 


oncc^  coTered  the  table,  and,  ub  she  said,  "  tramiformed 
homely  dinner  into  a  Belshazzar's  feast." 

8.  "  Ah,  you  sly  Uttle  puss !"  she  exclaimed,  as,  thorough! 
conquered,  she  warmly  embraced  her ;   "  who  would  ban 
thought  there  was  all  this  hidden  in  you  1"    The  pudding  vii 
unammonsly  pronounced  excellent ;  and  Aunt  Robert  did  i 
fail  to  relate  the  history  of  her  favorite  dish. 

9.  From  this  moment,  her  opinion  of  Mary  underwent  il 
strildng  change.  She  owned  to  me  m  a  half  whisper  at  dti-l 
sert,  fhat  she  had  been  too  severe ;  and  that  our  friend  I 
not  neglected  the  "essential"  as  much  as  she  had  at 
imagined.  Still  she  was  strongly  opposed  to  "  the  gift  oil 
tongues,"  which  she  maintained,  could  be  available  only  to  thil 
Apostles. 

10.  At  last  we  rose  ftom  the  table,  and  adjourned  to  thel 
little  sitting-room;  where,  while  waiting  the  advent  of  tea,! 
each  lady  brought  out  her  sewmg  or  embroidery,  and  Aontj 
Robert  sought  the  mittens  she  was  knitting.  Unfortunately, 
they  had  not  escaped  the  general  disturbance ;  a  needle  had  | 
fallen  out,  which  was  one  of  the  little  domestic  miseries  ooi ' 
worthy  aunt  felt  most  acutely.  She  uttered  a  slight  exclamar 
tion  of  despair,  and  went  off  in  search  of  her  spectacles ;  bat  | 
on  her  return  she  found  her  knitting  in  the  hands  of  Mary. 

11.  "  Ah  I  you  little  puss,  what  are  you  about  there?"  s 
cried  in  alarm.    Mary  returned  her  the  mitten  with  a  smile,  I 
and,  on  looking,  she  found  the  stitches  taken  up,  and  the  pat- 
tern continued. 

She  regarded  Mary  with  a  stupefied  look^  then  turning  to 
me,  she  exclaimed  4n  a  tone  of  the  highest  admiration,  "  She 
can  kmt,  too  I  Ah,  my  friend,  I  retract  my  judgment;  there 
If  nothing  wanting ;  her  education  is  complete."  ■ 


ANE0DOTK8  OF  TUE  TIGER. 


15» 


H 


28.  Anecdotes  of  the  Tiger. 

IKE  otaer  voracions  beasts,  nothing  will  deter  tbe  tiger 
from  attempting  to  obtain  his  prey  when  hungry,  however 
ipareDt  may  be  the  danger  he  risks.  A  Scotchman,  who 
a  soldier  in  India,  assured  ns,  that  while  the  army  was  on 
march,  in  broad  day,  an  enormously  large  tiger  sprang  from 
jungle  which  they  were  passing,  and  carried  off  one  of  the 
len  in  his  mouth,  with  as  much  ease  "  as  a  cat  would  carry 
a  mouse,"  and  was  oni  of  sight  before  any  effort  could  be 
le  for  the  recovery  of  the  poor  man,  so  quick  and  nnex* 
cted  was  the  whole  occurrence. 

2.  The  postmen  of  India,  who  are  called  dawks,  and  who 
irarel  on  foot,  are  frequently  seized  by  these  creatures,  as  are 

who  escort  them ;  nor  can  any  thing  be  more  dangerous 
Ihau  for  individuals  to  venture,  unless  in  well-armed  bodies, 
ithin  their  blood-stained  neighborhoods. 

3.  In  1819,  an  official  report  was  presented  to  the  Indian 
ovemment,  in  which  it  was  stated  that  eighty-four  persons 
ad  been  seized  and  carried  off  by  tigers,  from  one  district  only, 
II  the  course  of  the  preceding  year.    It  may  be  supposed  how 

ucb  the  possessions  of  the  East  India  Company  most  have 


? 


160 


TIIU  TIIIKD  READKB. 


been  infested  with  these  depredators,  when  the  amount  il 
miums  bestowed  on  those  persons  who  slew  them  in  the|[ 
1808,  is  stated  to  have  been  $16,000. 

4.  Like  most  other  animals,  the  tigress  is  attached  stn 
to  her  jonng.  In  the  "  Oriental  Field  Sports,"  Captain  1 
liamson  tells  ns  that  some  peasants  in  India  had  found  I 
•uhs  in  the  absence  of  their  mother,  and  brought  him  i 
which  he  placed  in  a  stable.  After  howUng  for  several  niid 
the  tigress  approached  and  responded  to  them ;  and  it  i 
deemed  pmdent  to  let  them  oat,  lest  their  mamma  ih 
break  in ;  the  next  morning  she  carried  them  off. 

5.  The  tiger,  like  all  animals  when  brought  under  the( 
trol  of  man,  will  evinoe  sig^  of  partiality  towards  his  ke 
or  others  accustomed  to  treat  him  kindly.    Still,  we  thioic^ 
familiarities  of  keepers  are  sometimes  carried  too  far,  as  t!i 
are  times  when  the  natural  instinct  of  savage  brutes  will  i 
paramount,  in  despite  of  their  training. 

6.  The  impropriety,  however,  of  strangers  attempting 
take  any  freedom  with  such  creatures,  caunot  be  too  oil 
nor  too  deeply  impressed  upon  the  minds  of  our  readers— «!« 
from  inattention  to  it,  how  many  fatal  accidents  have  occu 
A  schoolmaster  went  to  see  a  menagerie,  where,  admiring  I 
beauty  of  the  tiger,  he  offered  it  an  apple.  The  creature  seii 
his  hand,  dn^ging  it  into  the  cage ;  and  although,  by  thee 
forts  of  the  keepers  the  brute  was  compelled  to  let  it  go,  ] 
it  was  so  dreadfully  lacerated  that  amputation  became  ne< 
sary;  and,  in  a  few  days  afterwards,  the  poor  man  was  a  cor 

7.  The  Orientalists  have  a  very  great  partiality  for  witn 
ing  the  combats  of  wild  and  savage  ammals ;  and  we 
now  ^ve  our  readers,  not  only  an  illustration  of  their  Ba,^ 
tastes,  but  also  the  Invincible  courage  of  their  fellow-beii 
who  run  the  risk  of  a  dreadful  death  in  its  gratification, 
statement  from  which  we  are  about  to  quote  is  narrated  bjj 
gentleman  who  was  invited  by  the  rajah  of  Goorg  to  becon 
a  spectator  of  his  cruel  and  terrific  amusements.    Goorg  is  j 
principality  of  Hindostan,  which  our  youthful  readers 
discover  upon  their  maps,  situated  in  the  western  Ghaut  men 
tains  of  that  vast  region. 


ANECDOTES  OF  TUB  TIOKB. 


161 


•nioont  ofi 
|hem  in  tij 


18.  The  n\)ah,  with  true  Asiatic  vanitj,  prided  himself  upon 

nnmber  of  savage  beasts  be  possessed ;  having,  it  was  said, 

ij  lions  and  tlgen  which  had  been  brought  to  perfect  sab* 

ion,  besides  others  which  were  kept  for  combating. 

On  the  appointed  day  of  the  exhibition  in  question,  the  n^ah 

th  his  court,  and  other  persons,  were  seated  in  a  gallery, 

low  which  was  an  arena  of  a  hundred  yards  square,  wh'  re 

le  sports  commenced.    After  some  engagements  of  inferior 

mals  bad  ended,  a  man  entered  the  arena  almost  naked, 

Ting  on  a  pair  of  trowsers  only,  that  Just  covered  his  hip.; 

id  reached  scarcely  half  way  down  his  thighs. 

9.  He  was  tall,  and  though  slight,  yet  muscular,  strong, 
d  active.  His  body  glistened  with  the  oil  with  which  it  had 
n  robbed  to  add  to  the  pliability  of  his  limbs ;  and  in  his 

land  he  held  what  is  called  a  Ooorg-knife,  somewhat  in  shape 

ike  a  plough-share,  about  two  feet  long,  three  or  four  inches 

ide,  and  tapering  a  little  towards  the  handle :  it  is  heavy, 

md  first  swung  round  the  head  by  the  person  who  uses  it,  by 

hich  means  a  blow  is  inflicted  with  a  force  that  is  truly  won- 

lerful.    The  Hindoo,  who  now  appeared,  had  volunteered  to 

Ifight  with  a  tiger;    and,  having   brandished  his  weapon, 

I" the  expression  of  his  countenance,"  says  the  writer,  "was 

jabsolately  sublime  when  he  gave  the  signal  for  the  tiger  to  be 

[let  loose ;  it  was  the  very  concentration  of  moral  energy — the 

[index  of  a  single  and  settled  resolution  I" 

10.  Men,  who  were  placed  above,  at  his  dgnal  raided  the 
I  bars  of  a  cage  from  which  an  bnmense  royal  tiger  sprang  before 

him  with  a  halfHstifled  growl,  and  waving  its  tiiii,  upon  which 
it  erected  the  hair  as  a  cat  does  when  she  is  angry.  It  looked 
at  its  antagonist,  who  met  it  with  his  eye,  and  then  at  all 
around ;  bat  uneasy  at  its  novel  situation,  it  leaped  again  into 
its  cage,  from  which  the  keepers  above  not  being  able  again 
to  force  it,  let  fall  the  bars  by  which  it  was  secured. 

11.  Some  crackers  were  tied  to  the  creature's  taU,  which 
projected  through  the  bars ;  to  these  the  man  applied  a  lighted 
match  that  had  been  handed  to  him,  and  the  bars  were  again 
drawn  up.  The  tiger  now  bounded  out  of  its  den  in  a  state 
of  frantic  excitement,  until  the  crackers  having  exploded,  it 


t.  .1 


tea 


THB  THIBD  BBADKB. 


•onched  gnarling  in  a  comer,  like  a  cat  when  she  is  annoyei 
the  ban  of  its  cage  had  been  let  down ;  and  the  brave  Hii 
who  had  been  watcliing  its  motions,  now  slowly  and  resolntt 
advanced  towards  it. 

12.  Thus  ronsed,  the  hairs  of  its  body  became  erect,  i 
tail  (like  the  tail  of  an  angry  cat)  twice  its  osnal  size ;  yet,i 
the  man  slowly  advanced,  it  again  retreated,  koeping  its  froij 
towards  its  brave  opponent,  who  still  advanced  with  the  m 
slow  and  measured  step  as  before.    Suddenly  he  stopped ;  i 
now  paced  steadily  backwards,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  his  enein]| 
which,  as  he  thus  retreated,  raised  itself  to  its  extreme 
lashed  its  tail,  and  arched  its  back,  preparatory  to  making^ 
spring.    The  Hindoo  still  moved  gently  backwards,  and  vba 
the  tiger  could  no  longer  see  tJte  expression  of  his  e^%\ 
bounded  towards  him  with  a  growl. 

13.  With  the  swiftness  of  lightning,  however,  he  sprang  oil 
one  side,  whirled  his  ponderous  knife  around  his  head,  aDil 
when  the  animal's  feet  reached  the  ground,  it  felt  the  full  force , 
of  the  irresistible  blow  designed  for  it,  just  above  the  joint  o( 
the  hmder  leg,  the  bone  of  which  it  completely  snapped  in  two. 

14.  The  Hindoo  retired  a  few  paces,  and  the  wounded  beast,  | 
disabled  from  making  another  spring,  roaring  with  pam,  rushed  | 
towards  him  upon  its  three  1^  (the  other  hanging  by  the  i 
only)  in  a  state  of  reckless  excitement,  while  its  courageom  I 
foe  stood  calm  and  determined,  awaiting  the  shock,  poising  | 
his  trusty  weapon  above  his  head,  and  which,  when  his  antag- 
onist had  got  within  his  reach,  he  struck  with  such  force  into ' 
its  skull,  as  severed  it  from  ear  to  ear,  and  the  conquered 
brute  fell  dead  at  his  feet.  He  then  calmly  drew  his  knife 
across  the  tiger's  skin  to  cleanse  it  of  the  blood ;  made  a 
dignified  "  salaam,"  or  bow,  to  the  rajah,  and,  amidst  the  load 
plaudits  of  the  spectators^.withdrew. 


she  is  annoyiK 
the  brave  Hind 
^17  *nd  resolat, 

ime  erect,  andii 
snal  size;  yet,, 

'''^epingitsfroi 
5d  with  the  gain 
he  stopped  •  aoi 
^edonhisened 
'  extreme  heigj 
ory  to  making  J 
^ards,  and  wh  J 
^  of  his  eyejj^ 

JFf  he  sprang  oil 
I  his  head,  aii«, 
Jit  the  full  for(» 
^ve  the  joint  ol( 
snapped  in  two.  I 
»^ounded  beast, 
*h  pain,  rashed 
ingbytheskiD 
its  courageoM 
shock,  poising 
hen  his  antag- ' 
inch  force  into  I 
he  conqaered 
^w.  his  knife 
)od ;  made  a 
tidst  the  load 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


29.  Tbb  Fountain. 

1.  TNTO  the  sunshine 
,    i  Full  of  Ught, 
Leaping  and  flashing, 
From  mom  to  night ; 

8.  Into  the  moonlight 
Whiter  than  snow, 
Waving  so  flower-liko 
When  the. winds  blow* 

8.  Into  the  starlight, 
Bushing  in  spray, 
Happy  at  midnight 
Happy  by  day ; 

4.  Ever  in  motion 

Blithesome  and  cheery. 
Still  climbing  heavenwaidy 
Never  aweary ; 

6.  Qlad  of  all  weathers 
Still  seeming  best. 
Upward  or  downward 
Motion  thy  rest ; 

6.  Fall  of  a  nature 

Nothing  can  tave. 
Changed  every  moment, 
Ever  the  same ; 

t.  Ceaseless  aspiring, 
Ceaseless  content. 
Darkness  or  sunshine 
Thy  element  • 


168 


ie4 


THK  THIRD  BKADBB. 


8.  Glorioas  fountain  I 
Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 
Upward  like  thee. 


80.  Benediot  Abnold. 

THERE  was  a  day  when  Talleyrand  arrived  in  Havre 
from  Paris.    It  was  the  darkest  hoar  of  the  French 
olntion.    Fursned  by  the  bloodhonnds  of  the  Reign  of  Tei 
stripped  of  every  wreck  of  property  or  power,  Talle; 
secured  a  passage  to  America,  in  a  ship  about  to  sail, 
was  a  beggar  and  a  wanderer  to  a  strange  land,  to  earn 
bread  by  daily  labor. 

2.  "  Is  there  an  American  staying  at  your  house  ?"  he  asl 
the  lacdlord  of  the  hotel.    "  I  am  bound  to  cross  the  wal 
and  would  like  a  letter  to  a  person  of  influence  in  the  ^eifl^B.  "Who  i 
World."  W^  the  next  re 

The  landlord  hesitated  a  moment,  then  replied,  "  There  isfl  a-j^y  name 
gentleman  up-stairs,  either  from  America  or  Britain,  bfl  ^^y  ^\a,n.  joy  i 
whether  an  American  or  an  Englishman,  I  cannot  tell." 

He  pointed  the  way,  and  Talleyrand,  who  in  his  life 
bishop,  prince,  and  prime  mmister,  ascended  the  stairs, 
miserable  suppliant,  he  stood  before  the  stranger's  dooi, 
knocked,  and  entered. 

3.  In  the  far  corner  of  the  dunly-lighted  room,  sat  a  mai 
of  some  fifty  years ;  his  arms  folded,  and  his  head  bowed  on 
his  breast.  From  a  window  directly  opposite,  a  flood  of  light 
poured  over  his  forehead.  His  eyes  looked  from  beneath  thil 
downcast  brows,  and  gazed  on  Talleyrand's  face  with  a  pecu- 
liar and  searching  expression.  His  face  was  striking  m  ontr 
line ;  the  mouth  and  chin  indicative  of  an  iron  will  His  fonn, 
vigorous,  even  with  the  snows  of  fifty,  was  dad  in  a  dark,  but 
rich  and  distinguished  costume. 

4.  Talleyrand  advanced,  stated  that  he  was  a  fugitive,  and, 
under  the  impression  that  the  gentleman  before  him  was  an 
American,  he  solicited  his  kind  and  feeling  offices.  He  ponied 


edict  Arnold 

Hewa8g< 

words,  "  An: 

1.  Thus,  3 

with  the  wai 

eluded  room 

and  forced 

infamy. 

The  last 
from  whose 
the  page  ol 

8.  The  1 
cannot  do 
pursued  hi 
and  that 
canker  at 
try,  what 


BENKDIUT    ARNOLD. 


166 


nsef"heaslj 
ross  the  watt, 
»ce  inthejfei 


n,  sat  a  u„ 
'ad  bowed  oJ 
flood  of  JigJ 
1  beneath  the! 
with  a  pecn-l 
iking  in  onJ 
-  His  form,  I 
a  dark,  but! 


|)rth  bis  history  in  eloquent  French  and  broken  English ;  "  1 
<  a  wanderer  and  an  exile.  I  am  forced  to  fly  to  the  New 
hM,  without  a  friend  or  a  home.  Yon  are  an  American  I 
|fire  me,  then,  I  beseech  you,  a  letter  of  yours,  so  that  I  may 
I  able  to  earn  my  bread.  I  am  willing  to  toil  in  any  manner ; 
Ihe  scenes  of  Paris  haye  seized  me  with  such  horror,  that  a 
life  of  labor  would  be  a  paradise  to  a  career  of  luxury  in 
France.  You  will  give  me  a  letter  to  one  of  your  friends? 
gentleman  like  yourself  has  doubtless  many  friends." 
5.  The  strange  gentleman  rose.  With  a  look  that  Talley- 
and  never  forgot,  he  retreated  towards  the  door  of  the  next 
Ichamber ;  his  eyes  looking  stQl  firom  beneath  his  darkened 
Ibrow.  He  spoke  as  he  retreated  backwards :  his  voice  was 
[full  of  meaning.  "I  am  the  only  man  born  in  the  New  World  , 
■who  can  raise  his  hand  to  God  and  say,  I  have  not  a  friendi;^ 
{not  one,  in  all  America !''  Talleyrand  never  forgot  the  over- 
Ivhebning  sadness  of  the  look  which  accompanied  these  words. 
L  6.  "Who  are  yon?"  he  med,  as  the  strange  man  retreated 
I  to  the  next  room ;  "  yonr  name  ?" 

"  My  name,"  he  replied,  mth  a  smile  that  had  more  mock- 
I  ery  than  joy  in  its  convulsive  expression, — "  my  name  is  Ben* 
!  edict  Arnold  1" 

He  was  gone ;  Talleyrand  sank  into  his  chaur,  gasping  the 
words,  "  Arnold,  the  TRArroR  I" 

7.  Thus,  you  see,  he  wandered  over  the  earth,  another  Gam, 
with  the  wanderer's  mark  npon  his  brow.  Even  in  that  se- 
cluded room,  in  that  inn  at  Havre,  his  crimes  found  him  out, 
and  forced  him  to  tell  his  name :  that  name  the  synonym  of 
infamy. 

The  last  twenty  years  of  his  life  are  covered  with  a  cloud, 
from  whose  darkness  but  a  few  gleams  of  light  flash  out  upon 
the  page  of  history. 

8.  The  manner  of  his  death  is  not  exactly  known ;  but  we 
cannot  doubt  that  he  died  utterly  friendless ;  that  remorse 
pursued  hun  to  the  grave,  whispering  John  Andr6 1  in  his  ear ; 
and  that  the  memory  of  his  course  of  glory  gnawed  like  a 
canker  at  his  heart,  murmuring,  forever,  "  True  to  your  coun- 
try, what  might  you  have  been,  oh  I  Arnold,  the  TRAtron  I" 


*  ] 


166 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


31.  EcTH  AND  NoEia.  I 

rHE  short,  but  interesting  story  of  Both,  happened  under 
the  Judges,  and  makes  a  book  of  itself.  The  fiacred 
writer  tells  ns,  that  at  the  time  when  the  land  of  Israel  was 
sorely  vexed  by  famine,  a  certain  man,  by  name  Elimelech,  oi 
the  town  of  Bethlehem,  retired  with  No6mi  his  wife  and  two 
sons  into  the  country  of  the  Moabites,  not  to  Rtafve  in  his  own 


RUTH  AND  NOEHI. 


167 


\,  After  his  death,  No€mi  married  her  two  sons  to  two 
Dg  women  of  that  coantry,  whose  names  were  Arpha  and 
Jth.  Tbey  lived  ten  years  together,  bnt  no  issne  came  from 
U  of  the  tWo  marriages ;  the  two  brothers  died,  and  left 
ts  disconsolate  mother  in  a  childless  widowhood.  Having 
IcoDsolation  to  expect  in  the  land  of  Moab,  NoSmi  resolved 
I  return  into  her  own  country,  where  the  famme  was  no 
ger  felt. 

I  She  commnnicated  her  design  to  Arpha  and  Bnth ;  they 
jth  desired  to  accompany  her  to  Bethlehem.  She  begged 
fj  would  not  think  of  accompanying  a  friendless  widow, 
|m  whom  they  had  neither  fortune  nor  comfort  to  expect, 
return  to  their  relations,  from  whom  they  might  meet 
Itb  both;  she  represented  to  them,  that  by  going  with 
r,  they  would  but  throw  themselves  into  fresh  miseries ; 
|it  her  present  distress  was  sufficient  without  any  other 
Idition;  that  to  see  them  suffer  on  her  account  would  in- 
pase  her  pun;  and  that  their  sufferings  would  be  more 
bictlng  to  her  than  her  own. 

U.  Arpha  yielded  to  Nodmi's  reasons,  tenderly  embraced 
fr,  and  returned  to  Moab.  Buth  was  too  much  attached  to 
rmotheri>in-law  to  think  of  leaving  her;  with  the  greatest 
aess  she  begged  that  they  might  be  never  separated  from 
ch  other.  "  I  will  accompany  you,"  said  she, "  wherever  you 
all  go,  and  with  you  I  will  forever  dwell ;  your  people  shall 
I  my  people,  and  your  God  shall  be  mine ;  in  the  same  land 
^th  you  I  will  live  and  die,  and  nothing  but  death  shall  ever 
ftrtns." 

5.  NoSmi  could  not  refuse  so  affectionate  and  so  resolute  a 
> ;  she  consented  to  Buth's  going  with  her,  and  they 

oth  came  to  Bethlehem.  It  was  then  harvest  time,  and 
|lath  desired  leave  of  her  mother  to  go  into  the  neighboring 
elds,  where  she  might  glean  some  relief  in  their  scanty 
jircnmstances.  Kind  Providence  conducted  her  into  a  field 
elonging  to  Booz,  a  near  relation  of  Elimelech,  No^mi's  for 
tier  husband. 

6.  Her  remarkable  diligence  drew  the  eyes  of  the  reapers, 
Dd  Booz,  from  the  favorable  account  he  had  received  from 


188 


THB  THIUID   MEAOlilB. 


his  overseer,  of  Bath's  dutiful  behavior  to  her  mot;ier,( 
of  her  diligence  at  work,  ordered  q'?tj  kindness  and  dvilitj 
be  shown  her.  H«  bade  his  reapers  scatter  the  com  on  | 
pose,  and  leave  Eutli  a  snfiBcient  qnantity  to  reqnito  h  :- 
for  the  pams  she  took ;  if  she  i«honld  be  willing  to  a 
told  them  not  to  hinder  her,  and  insisted  upon  L«¥  eating  i 
drinking  with  his  servants. 

t.  This  goodness  of  Booz  to  E.nth  has  been  considered! 
the  ho)  J  fathers  as  an  emblun  of  that  which  Jesns  Christ  ( 
since  shown  to  his  Church.  Booz  did  not  disdain  to 
notice  of  a  poor  stranger ;  neither  the  present  meanness  of  I 
appearance,  nor  the  past  errors  of  her  religions  sentimentsj 
eluded  her  from  the  acts  of  hie  bomanity. 

8.  Buth's  steady  attachment  to  No€mi  is  an  example  | 
that  unshaken  fidelity  which  every  Christian  owes  to  Ja 
£!hrist  and  his  Chorch.  He  that  loves  his  father,  mother,! 
toB  kindred,  more  than  me,  says  our  blessed  Saviour,  is  i 
worthy  of  me.  Whoever  will  come  after  me,  let  him  da 
oimself,  take  up  his  cross,  and  so  follow  me. 

9.  If  in  following  Jesns  Christ,  worldly  advantages  iiiii| 
be  sometimes  given  up,  and  hardships  undergone,  an  apri 
mind  and  a  peaceful  conscience  will  confer  an  inward  satisi 
tion,  which,  without  virtue,  no  riches  can  purchase,  and  i 
power  bestow. 

10.  Nofimi's  poverty  was  to  Buth  of  more  advantage  th 
the  wealth  of  Moab ;  and  they  who,  by  a  firm  and  generi 
attachment,  stand  steady  to  the  principles  of  duty,  will 
receive  their  reward  in  the  end.    They  may  suffer,  they  i 
be  oppressed  for  a  time ;  the  hour  of  their  delivery  hastens  ( 
an  eternity  of  joys  is  ah^y  prepared  to  console  their ; 
«mI  to  crown  their  patience. 


FLOWEUS. 


169 


82.  Flowsss. 


1.  AH,  they  look,  upward  in  every  place 
U  Through  this  beautiful  world  of  ours, 
And  dear  as  a  smile  on  an  old  friend's  face 
Is  the  smile  of  the  bright,  bright  flowers ! 
They  tell  us  of  wanderings  by  woods  and  streams ; 

They  tell  us  of  lanes  and  trees ; 
But  the  children  of  showers  and  sunny  beams 
Have  lovelier  tales  than  these— 

The  bright,  bright  flowers  t 

8.  They  tell  of  a  season  when  men  were  not, 
When  earth  was  by  angels  trod. 
And  leaves  and  flowers  in  every  spot 

Burst  forth  at  the  call  of  God ; 
When  spirits,  singing  their  hymns  at  even, 

Wandered  by  wood  and  glade ; 
An(S^the  Lord  look'd  down  from  the  highest  heaven 
And  bless'd  what  he  had  made — 

The  bright,  bright  flowers. 

8.  That  blessing  remainetn  upon  them  still. 
Though  often  the  stomhclond  lowers. 
And  frequent  tempests  may  soil  and  chill 

The  gayest  of  earth's  fair  flowers. 
When  Sin  and  Death,  with  their  sister  Grief, 

Made  a  home  in  the  hearts  of  men, 

The  blesoog  of  God  on  each  tender  leaf 

Preserved  in  their  beauty,  then, — 

The  bright,  bright  flowers. 

i.  The  lily  is  lovely  as  when  it  slept 
On  the  waters  of  Eden's  lake ; 
The  woodbhw  breathes  sweetly  as  when  it  orepk» 
In  Eden  from  brake  to  brake. 

8 


170 


THB  TUIBO  UKADKM. 


They  were  left  as  a  proof  of  the  loTeluen 
Of  Adam  and  Eve's  first  home ; 

They  are  here  as  a  type  of  the  Joys  that  bleat 
The  jast  in  the  world  to  come — 

The  bright,  bright  flowenk 


■V  I  I 


83.  The  Soholab  of  the  Bosabt. 

IN  a  certain  district  in  the  south  of  France,  there  liveii| 
noble  lady,  who  governed  her  household  and  family  in  i 
holy  discipline,  and  who  was  among  the  first  to  join  the  i 
fraternity  in  honor  of  the  mother  of  God,  on  its  re-establi 
ment  in  that  conntry. 

2.  She  had  an  only  child,  named  Bernard ;  a  boy  whose  i 
position  was  as  noble  as  his  birth,  although  indeed  be  n 
rather  distinguished  for  the  angelic  innocence  of  his  life  thao] 
for  the  endowment  of  his  mind.    He  was  sent  by  his  motb 
to  study  at  a  school  in  the  neighborhood,  whence  he 
wont  to  return  home  every  evening,  for  she  coulc'iot  resold 
to  trust  him  away  from  her  own  care  while  he  was  still  n| 
young  a  child. 

3.  It  does  not  seem  that  Bernard  was  in  any  way  deficiei 
in  abiUty ;  and  he  even  made  considerable  progress  in  some  oil 
his  studies,  especially  in  granmiar ;  but  he  was  wanting  l&l 
quickness  and  vivacity  of  imagination ;  and  the  composition) 
of  French  and  Latin  verseid,  which  was  one  of  the  common  j 
school-tasks  of  his  class,  became  an  insurmountable  difficulty. 

i.  One  evening  when  he  returned  home,  after  a  day  of  nn- 1 
usual  trouble,  he  sat  down  in  disconsolate  mood  on  the  stops 
eading  into  the  garden,  and  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  be 
gave  himself  up  to  very  sorrowful  reflections.    He  knew  bow 
much  his  mother  wished  that  he  should  grow  up  a  learned  | 
man,  and  then  he  was  at  the  bottom  of  his  class,  with  the  rep- ! 
ntation  of  being  the  dunce  of  the  school ;  and  ail  because  be ! 
was  not  bom  a  poet :  it  was  certainly  a  little  hard. 

5.  Poets,  as  all  know,  are  bom,  not  made ;  and  it  seemed 


THE  80IIOLAB  OP  THK   KOSAUY. 


173 


it  him 
)we». 


there  lived, 
l»d  family  in 
to  join  % 
its  re-€8tab!ii 

boy  whose « 
indeed  he  wa 
of  his  life  ti 

by  his  motl 
i^h^nce  he  w, 
ol<J*JOt  resell 
»e  WIS  still  al 

'  waj  deficie_. 
ess  in  some  of  I 
w  wanting  inl 
>  composition 
the  common  I 
le  difficnitj. 
adayof  nn-i 
on  the  stops 
his  hand,  k 
e  knew  how 
P  a  learned  I 
^th  the  rep- 
becaase  be 

!  it  seemed 


easonable  thing  to  spend  so  many  a  long  day  in  trying 
come  what  natnre  had  not  made  him. 
[Bernard,"  said  his  motho^  —and  at  the  sound  of  that  gen« 
Toice  the  poor  boy  started  to  his  feet — "what  is  the  mat- 

Yonr  hair  is  hanghig  abont  yonr  eyes,  yooj*  cap  is  on 
I  ground,  and  I  see  something  very  like  tears  on  those  white 


I.  Bernard  hung  his  head,  but  did  not  say  a  iford.    "  Do 

not  speak,  my  child  ?"  continued  his  mother :  "  you  were 

cr  wotot  to  hide  your  sorrows  thus ;  or  is  it,  indeed,  that 

have  fallen  hito  some  grieyous  fault  at  school,  and  fear  to 

laroit  tome?" 

!"No,  mother,"  replied  Bernard,  "they  call  me  dunce,  and 
I,  and  they  speak  truly :  but  though  now  I  could  cry,  as 
ugh  my  heart  would  break,  it  is  for  no  fault  that  you  would 
m  a  grievous  one ;  it  is  that  I  am  not  a  poet."  And  with 
le  words,  Bernard  hid  bis  face  on  his  mother's  knee,  and 

ibbed  aloud. 

7.  "  A  poet,  child  1"  said  his  mother ;  "  is  that  yonr  only 
able?  Heard  you  ever  that  poets  were  happier  or  better 
in  other  men,  that  yon  should  crave  a  gift  that  brings  little 

Lse,  and  ofttimes  less  of  grace:  covet  the  better  gifts,  Bernard; 
ir  this  is  hardly  worth  yonr  tears ;  a  holy  heart  and  a  spotless 
ith  were  fitter  things  to  weep  after." 

8.  "  But,  mother,"  replied  Bernard,  earnestly,  "  you  know 
t  how  the  case  stands  with  boys :  we  have  to  learn  so  many 
ings  yon  would  marvel  to  find  the  use  for ;  and  among  them 
there  is  none  so  strange  to  fit  a  meaning  to  as  the  making 

if  these  verses. 

9.  "  And  yet  Master  Roland  says  I  am  a  duiice  if  I  do  not 
e  them ;  and  shall  abide  as  I  am,  the  laglast  of  the  school, 

ill  I  better  know  how  to  scan  my  lines,  and  have  learnt  the 
ference  between  a  trochee  and  a  spondee:  and  that,"  he 
jidded,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "I  shall  never  learn." 

10.  "  Bernard,"  said  his  mother,  "  I  do  not  think  I  ew^  help 
to  mend  your  verses,  but  I  may  chance  to  be  able  to  ttend 
yonr  courage.  It  was  but  the  other  day  that  liaatet  Jl^ 
told  me  of  a  student  whose  books  were  as  grievous  to  him  as 


"'i: 


173 


THE  'iillUU    UKADKR. 


Tm 


ftoy  versefl  of  yoms  cad  be.  and  yet  lie  found  the  way  notlfonnd  it  &11  in 
to  read  them,  but  to  write  them  too ;  and  died  a  great  doKe  soon  becai 
and  professor  in  the  nnircrsity."  Si'the  title,  as 

11.  "And  what  was  his  way?'' asked  Bernard.    "PeiiKarr. 

his  book»  were  written  in  prose ;  it  might  have  been  diff^K]^  Every  one 
if  they  had  Ixien  poetry."  H,  the  head  o 

"  His  way  waa  a  very  simple  one,"  replied  his  mother ;  'Banls  of  leardi 
atiked  our  dear  Lady's  help,  and  every  day  said  the  rosarAth  that  delica^ 
her  honor.    I  think  there  is  little  to  hinder  you  from  di 
the  same. 

12.  "Master  Alan  has  given  yon  a  rosary,  though  I  see 
that  you  often  use  it ;  take  it  before  her  altar,  every  moi 
before  you  go  to  school,  and  say  the  prayers  as  he  has  tai 
you ;  and  remember  that  no  one  ever  prayed  to  Mary  ^tl 
obtaining  relief." 

13.  Bernard  was  not  slow  in  following  his  mother's  co 
and  not  content  with  saying  part  of  the  rosary,  he  ever; 
recited  the  entire  fifteen  mysteries  on  his  knees  before 
image  on  our  lady's  altar. 

14.  Nor  was  it  long  before  a  singular  change  was  obseni 
in  the  boy ;  not  only  did  his  former  dulness  and  heaviness 
capacity  gradually  disappear,  but  a  certain  depth  of  feeling 
gracefulness  of  unagery  was  displayed  in  his  school-vei 
that  placcKl  them  very  far  above  the  ordmary  standard  of 
productions.  i 


34.  Ths  Soholab  of  the  Bosaay — continued. 


iding,  he  mig 
the  doctor's 
4.  But  their! 
the  scholar  c 
in  store.    C 
an  aching  pai 
ition  had  incr 
light,  and  w 
lere,  spite  of  < 
mess  could  b 
5.  For  two  1 
.dually  assuB 
iftus  desired  t! 
,in  lus  room, 
jhtest  object 
;rictly  obeyed 
6.  Neverthe 
ithvng  preven 
Every  d( 
|he  rosary,  aw 
ilie  blindness  1 
me  which  ne« 
ily  the  famil 


leck. 
1.  Alasl  b 


THE  masters  marvelled  at  the  change,  and  said  many  learni 
things  about  the  development  of  the  understan<^g ;  t1 
scholars  wondered  also,  and  soon  cmne  to  beseech  Bernard  ti 
help  them  in  their  tasks ;  as  for  the  boy  himself,  the  ligl 
Lis  soul  had  stolen  into  it  with  such  a  soft  and  quiet  gentle'Bo  dread ;  it 
ness,  that  he  hardly  knew  the  change.  Batal  form,  w 

*     2.  When  they  praised  and  qnestioned  him  as  to  whence  biHiard  was  to 
drew  his  thoughts  and  imagery,  ha  was  wont  to  answer,  witlAiiayed  taileni 
a  wondering  simplicity,  that  any  one  might  do  the  same,  forHad  been  so 


THE  SCHOLAH  OF   THE  ROHABT. 


178 


Ifoand  it  all  in  the  rosary.    This  reply,  which  he  constantly 
k  soon  became  talked  about  among  the  rest,  and  gained 

the  title,  among  his  companicos,  of  the  Scholar  of  the 

ary. 

3,  Erery  one  now  predicted  great  tUngs  of  Bernard ;  he 

h  the  head  of  his  class  and  of  the  school ;  the  high.:.t 

fanl?  of  learning,  he  was  told,  were  now  within  his  grasp ; 

]th  that  delicate  and  subtle  fancy,  and  that  solidity  of  unde^ 

knding,  he  might  aspire  to  any  thing ;  the  professor's  chau 

jthe  doctor's  cap  would  never  sorely  be  denied  him. 

14.  But  their  hopes  and  expectations  were  not  to  be  realized ; 

rthe  scholar  of  Mary  a  higher  and  Tory  different  distinction 

I  in  store.    One  day  he  came  home  as  usual,  and  complained 

[an  achmg  pain  in  his  eyes ;  before  the  moinhig  the  inflam- 

^tion  had  increased  to  such  a  degree  that  he  could  not  bear 

I  light,  and  was  obliged  to  keep  his  bed  in  a  darkened  room, 

here,  spite  of  every  care  and  remedy  which  his  mother's  ten- 

kroess  could  bestow,  he  suffered  the  extremity  of  pain. 

5.  For  two  months  he  lay  in  this  state,  while  the  disease 
iaally  assumed  a  more  dangerous  character.    The  physi- 

^ans  desired  that  every  ray  of  daylight  should  be  excluded 
om  his  room,  and  the  utmost  care  taken  to  preserve  the 
lightest  object  from  irritating  the  eye ;  an  order  which  was 
jtiictly  obeyed. 

6.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  his  pain  and  increasing  weakness, 
Dthing  prevented  Bernard  from  fulfilling  his  customary  pray 

Every  day,  as  usual,  he  recited  the  fifteen  mysteries  oi 
llie  rosary,  and  comforted  his  mother,  when  she  grieved  ovoi- 
llie  blindness  that  threatened  him,  by  saymg  his  devotion  was 
bDe  which  needed  neither  book  nor  daylight  to  help  it,  but 
billy  the  familiar  touch  of  those  dear  beads  that  never  left  his 
beck. 

I  Alas!  bUndness  was  before  long  not  the  only  evil  she  had 
to  dread ;  it  was  soon  evident  that  the  malady  had  reached  a 
fatal  form,  which  no  human  skill  could  avail  to  remedy.    Ber- 

ard  was  to  die ;  all  the  great  hopes  excited  by  his  newly  dis* 
blayed  talents  vanished  into  thin  au:;  and  those  whose  tongues 
Bad  been  so  busy  with  his  precocious  genius  were  now  loud  in 


i^ 


m 


m 


i 


-•^Qte**- 


174 


TIIR  THIKD   KBADKR. 


deploring  the  loss  of  one  from  whom  so  brilliant  a  career  mini 
have  been  expected. 

8.  Hir  mother  entered  the  room  to  prepare  him  fori 
coming  of  the  priest ;  and  as  she  did  so,  she  desired  the  atttoj 
ant  to  bring  a  candle  into  the  still-darkened  chamber. 

"  What  need  of  a  candle?"  said  the  boy ;  "  tell  them tli^ 
it  JH  not  wanted." 

0.  "  It  is  for  the  priest,  my  child,"  she  replied.  "  Tou  i 
try  and  bear  the  light  for  a  few  minutes ;  for  the  good  fatbi 
has  come  to  hear  your  confession,  and  he  could  not  see  i 
enter  without  a  light." 

" But  there  is  light,"  he  replied ;  "the  room  is  full  of l| 
and  has  never  been  dark  to  me.    I  wonder  that  yon  do  not  i 
it." 

10.  "  What  light?"  asked  the  priest,  who  was  by  this  tii 
bending  over  him.  "  Tour  mother  and  I  are  standing  be 
but  to  our  eyes  the  room  is  darkened  still." 

"  It  is  from  our  Lady,"  replied  the  boy;  "she  is  here  by  1117 j 
bedside,  and  the  rays  are  shinhig  from  her,  and  make  it  di 
There  has  never  been  darkness  here  since  I  have  been  ill." 

11.  The  priest  felt  an  awe  stealing  over  him,  and  inTolniyl 
tarily  bowed  his  head  towards  the  spot  indicated  by  the  ch 

"And  does  that  light  hurt  your  eyes?"  he  asked;  "yon] 
could  not  bear  the  daylight." 

"It  is  joy,"  answered  Bernard,  faintly;  "joy  and  glory;] 
the  sorrow  is  all  gone  now !"  and  the  priest  saw  that  in  I 
lost  words  he  was  still  thinking  of  the  rosary.  And  so  he 
died ;  and  those  whom  he  left  needed  not  the  evidence  of  mir- 
acles to  assure  them  that  the  scholar  of  Mary  had  been  taken  I 
to  the  fulness  of  that  glory,  something  of  whose  radjance  had 
thus  rested  over  his  dying  bed. 


i! 


fMK   VKlNin  or  MAT. 


175 


^  career  Qinl 

Wm  fort. 
ed  theatk^ 
nber. 
|teil  them  i 

"Yoa, 

|«  good  fath 

lot  see  I 

is  full  of  i 
00  do  not  i 

by  this  th 
anding  hen 

'  here  bjinj 

fnakeitda/.f 
>eenill.»    / 

»nd  involiiii.| 

•7  the  e i... 

ked;  "jool 

md  gloiy..] 
'hat  in 
^nd  so  hel 
>ce  of  inir.  ] 
>een  taken  I 
jaoce  had 


35.  The  Momre  of  Mat. 

THIS  is  the  sweet,  the  balmy  month  of  May  t — ^the  season 
when  nature  comes  forth  in  all  her  gayest  attire,  robed 
in  violet  and  green,  her  brow  encircled  with  garlands  of 
flowers.  To  children,  it  is  a  season  of  mirth } — to  all  a  time 
3f  gladness. 

Daring  this  month  the  Ghnrch,  in  a  special  manner,  invites 
her  children  to  honor  and  invoke  the  patronage  of  the  immac- 
nUte  Qneen  of  Heaven,  in  that  beautifol  devotion  of  "  tha 
Month  of  Mav." 


176 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


I' 


2.  As  this  devotion  in  honor  of  the  holy  Yirgin  is  now 
aniversally  practised,  we  give  the  following  sketch  of  it'^ 
for  the  instmction  and  edification  of  onr  joong  readers : 

3.  Daring  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  centnry,  Fatl 
Lalomia,  a  professor  in  one  of  the  Jesuit  colleges  in  Ital] 
proposed  to  the  pupils  of  his  class  to  perform  each  day  di 
the  month  of  May,  some  special  devotion  to  the  mother 
(}od.    The  happy  suggestion  was  joyfully  seconded  by  his 
pils,  and  accordingly,  a  statue  of  the  blessed  Yirgin  was  pi* 
upon  a  table  at  .the  end  of  the  clas^'room.    Before  this  hombl 
altar,  which  they  fervently  decorated  with  flowers,  the  venei 
ble  father  and  his  pupils  daily  assembled  and  recited  certi 
prayers  in  honor  of  Mary,  and  made  a  short  meditation  on  tlie| 
virtues  of  her  life. 

4.  The  fathers  of  the  college  remarked  with  much  gratifica-l 
tion  the  fervent  piety  which,  from  that  period,  distingoisiied 
the  members  of  Father  Lalomia's  dass^ — an  evidence  hovl 
pleasing  this  devotion  was  to  the  mother  of  God.  On  the  re- 
turmng  May,  the  devotion  which  ccnnmenced  in  a  smgle 
was  extended  to  the  whole  college.  The  effect  was  most  re- 
markable. 

5.  Boys  who  had  been  heretofore  nntractable,  now  became 
models  of  obedience  and  docility ;  those  who  had  been  remis^ 
in  the  practice  of  theur  religion,  now  flew  to  the  confessional; 
the  slothM  and  indolent  became  examples  in  the  punctual  and 
faithful  discharge  of  their  scholastic  duties ;  the  praises  of 
Mary  were  heard  from  every  tongue,  her  statue  was  daily 
crowned,  and  her  altar  strewed  with  flowers. 

0.  The  fathers,  seeing  the  good  effects  which  the  devotion 
of  the  month  of  May  produced  in  this  single  college,  immedi- 
ately introduced  it  into  all  their  colleges  in  Italy,  and  in  other 
countries  of  Europe ;  and  as  they  went  forth  from  these  insti- 
tutions on  the  mission,  they  established  the  devotion  among 
he  faithful,  and  thus  it  spread  from  church  to  church  until  it 
has  at  length  become  almost  universal. 

T.  Let  our  young  readers,  during  this  month,  join  in  this 
beautiful  devotion.  Let  them  go  forth  every  morning  and 
crown  the  statue  of  their  heavenly  Queen,  strew  her  altar  with 


sb-gathered  flc] 

leortB : 


Gv 


T 

TheiJ 
And^ 
Then 


THE  MONTH  OF  MABY. 


177 


ion    iMM.-^-'- 

A  oo  V  to  her  in  aU  the  fervor  of  their 
.sbgathered  flowers,  and  say  to  her  m 

^'^'''  Dearest  tnotbor  I  on  thy  altar. 

Guide  tby  children  "Wal^r 

Sftfely  through thta  valeot aea 
To  thy  Mcred  heart  devot^ 

Thou  on  us  bestoirest  P««« ' 
Blnclle<l  to  Heaven  we  p^t^ 
Till  this  dangerous  Ufe  snau  ow»» 


36.  The  Moiith  of  Mabt. 
,   ,TOOTGM.y  comes  torfh  taker  flowery  ate*. 
'•YC™,e,Je30ie.ta*.^U,«^. 

^:^?^'t.of^.b-<^J-^i^. 
Prepare  the  wreath  for  her  tesxw     j 

To  crave  a  boon  from  the  spouc 
I,.g,„wi.ghe«^^.*7»o^^^^^ 
-     mhttoe»aoni'ayo»rch»pletbe.i. 


ns 


TUB  THIKD  HEADER. 


37.  The  Indian. 


Here  lived  and  loved  anathl^^^''Shia  hole  unscar,^ 
foed  thepMting  deer;  g»2u>»  „„,!,'     "  ^'^  '■"Mer  p„r. 

paddled  their  light  ^  l'""  "^S^  Wtes,  aS  now  .t' 
jarred;  the  Xl^^^SllZS"' '"^^^  ^ 
death^ong,  all  were  here  •  aid  tl.,?^  «»??'«.  the  defyS 
he"-  curled  the  ™„ke  of'jj:^'  *"  "«  «ger strife  w«ZT 

not  written  his  kws  fn,  *k  *''®  ^^eat  Spirit     ITn  k  ? 

traced  them  o„  the"  b^'trth"  •  ?""  »'  «'»«rbat^:  Li 
-ature  knew  „„t  a,  ™^  »'  *^  hearts.    The  i^or  chfld  „^ 

»  verse  he  acW,edl:d'  i^^.r ^  l"'  '»«  GodTth"i 

*•  He  beheld  him  in  f),«   *     Y  "^'"^  around. 
'o->7  dwelling,  t,^:j-»;hataa^^^^ 

ttoat  flamed  on  hin,  ft-o^ 


Tfra  IKDIAN. 


179 


'"^led  With 
'  rani  this. 
5  onscared. 
'Oeath  the 
inter  pur- 
^at  smiles 


I  mid^day  throne ;  in  the  flower-that  snapped  in  the  mormng 

breeze ;  in  the  lofty  pine  that  defied  a  thonsand  whirlwmds ; 

lin  the  timid  warbler  that  never  left  its  native  grove ;  in  the 

[fearless  eagle,  whose  nntired  pinion  was  wet  in  clonds ;  in  the 

vorm  that  crawled  at  his  foot;  and  in  his  own  matchless 

form,  glowing  with  a  spark  of  that  light,  to  whose  mysterious 

|Soarce  he  bent  in  homble,  though  blind  adoration. 

5.  And  all  this  has  passed  away.  Across  the  ocean  came 
I  a  pilgrim  bark,  bearing  the  seeds  of  life  and  death.  The  for- 
1  mer  were  sown  for  yon ;  the  latter  sprang  up  in  the  path  of 

the  sunple  native.  Two  hundred  years  have  changed  the 
character  of  a  great  continent,  and  blotted  forever  from  its 
face  a  whole  peculiar  people.  Art  has  usurped  the  bowers  of 
nature,  and  the  anointed  children  of  education  have  been  too 
powerful  for  the  tribes  of  the  ignorant. 

6.  Here  and  there,  a  stricken  few  remain ;  but  how  unlike 
their  bold,  untamed,  untamable  progenitors  1  The  Indian, 
of  falcon  glance,  and  lion-bearing,  the  theme  of  the  touching 
ballad,  the  hero  of  the  pathetic  tale,  is  gone  I  and  his  degraded 
offspring  crawl  upon  the  soil  where  he  walked  in  muj osty,  to 
remmd  us  how  miserable  is  man,  when  the  foot  of  the  con- 
queror is  on  his  neck. 

1.  As  a  race,  they  have  withered  from  the  land.  Their 
arrows  are  broken,  their  springs  are  dried  up,  their  cabins  are 
in  the  dust.  Their  councU-fire  has  long  since  gone  out  on  the 
shore,  and  their  war-cry  is  fast  dying  to  the  untrodden  West. 
Slcflrly  and  sadly  they  climb  the  distant  mountains,  and  read 
their  doom  in  the  setting  sun.  They  are  shrinking  before  the 
mighty  tide  which  is  pressing  them  away;  they  must  soon 
hear  the  roar  of  the  last  wave,  which  will  settle  over  them 
forever. 

8.  Ages  hence,  the  inquisitive  white  man,  as  he  stands  by 
some  growing  city,  will  ponder  on  the  structure  of  their  dis- 
turbed remams,  and  wonder  to  what  manner  of  person  they 
belonged.  They  will  live  only  in  the  songs  and  chronicles  of 
their  exterminators.  Let  these  be  faithful  to  their  rude  vir- 
tues as  men,  and  pay  due  tribute  to  their  unhappy  fate  as  ft 
oeople. 


ISO 


THE  TIIIllD   READER. 


38.  CHAErrY. 

1.  pHARITY  was  a  Uttle  chad, 
^  Blue-eyed,  beantifnl  and  mild, 
Eoll  of  loye  and  fnll  of  light, 
As  the  moon  is  to  the  night ; 
Tiny  foot  and  snowy  hand — 
Little  carved  ivory  wand — 
Little  osier  basket  white- 
Little  vase  of  something  bright 
Hid  in  her  dress  qnite  cunningly, 
Had  the  sweet  chUd,  Charity  1 

S.  Where  the  aged  totter'd  on. 

Weak  and  haggard,  cold  and  waiH- 
Loit'ring  in  the  cheering  sun, 
Shivering  in  the  rayless  moon, 
Wrinkled  o'er  by  icy  time. 
Moaning  for  his  faded  prime, 
Wrapp'd  in  rags  and  wretchedness, 
Lying  down  in  hopelessness : 
With  vase  and  basket  there  would  be 
The  beautiful  child.  Charity  I 

8.  Where  the  sick  were4ike  to  die. 
Unheeded  all  by  human  eye. 
Parching  with  the  bleeding  mouth, 
Gasping  with  the  burning  drought. 
Sleepless — ravmg — sore  oppress'd. 
Staring  eye  and  heaving  breast. 
Deserted,  sad,  and  comfortless, 
In  that  lone  and  last  distress : 
With  vase  and  basket  there  would  be 
The  beautiful  child.  Charity  I 

4.  Where  the  starving  peasant  cried, 
Looking  at  his  wasting  bride — 


L( 

c 

Ci 
T 
Q 


6. 


6. 


THER 
stitut' 
Catholic 


THK    KVKRLASTING   CHURCH. 


181 


Looking  at  his  yonnglings  bright 
Fading  away  before  his  sight, 
Crying,  poor  man  I — bitterly. 
Crying,  the  helpless  sight  to  see- 
Then  a  little  voice  he'd  hear 
Go  ansinging  in  his  ear : 
With  yase  and  basket  there  wonld  b« 
The  beautiful  child.  Charity  I 

6.  Where  the  blind  man  stray'd  aside 
From  the  roadwsy  high  and  wide, 
And  felt  for  his  I'>st  path  agam 
'Mid  the  jeers  of  heartless  men. 
Just  as  stumbling  to  his  knees, 
A  little  hand  is  put  in  his, — 
A  gentle  voice  sings  up  to  him, 
Soothes  his  heart,  and  nerves  his  limb,- 
For  there  with  pitying  care  would  be 
The  beautiful  child,  Charity  I 

6.  Ah  1  the  sweet  child,  Charity  I 
It  does  one's  heart  a  good  to  see ! 
In  her  milk-white  simple  dress — 
In  her  meek,  bright,  loveliness — 
With  her  ever-giving  hand — 
With  her  peace-enchanting  wand— 
With  her  osier  basket  white — 
With  her  vase  of  something  bright 
Hid  in  her  dress  quite  cunnmgly : 
God-loved— pure  child — Charity  I 


39.  The  Everlasting  Chubch. 

THERE  la  not,  and  there  never  was,  on  this  earth,  an  in. 
stitntion  so  well  deserving  of  examination  as  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church,    The  history  of  that  Church  joins  together 


■^ 


182 


TUB  THIKD  READER. 


the  two  great  ages  of  civilization.  No  other  institution  bk 
left  standing  which  carries  the  mind  back  to  the  time  wLetl 
the  smoke  of  sacrifice  rose  from  the  Pantheon,  and  vhe&l 
camelopards  and  tigers  bounded  in  the  Flavian  amplii.] 
theatre. 

2.  The  proudest  royal  houses  are  but  of  yesterday,  when] 
compared  with  the  line  of  the  Supreme  Pontiffs.  That  line  | 
we  trace  back,  in  an  unbroken  series,  from  the  pope  y 
trowned  Napoleon  in  the  nineteenth  century,  to  the  pope  who  I 
crowned  Pepin  in  the  eighth ;  and  far  beyond  the  tin^e  of  Pe*  | 
pin  does  this  august  dynasty  ejEtend. 

3.  The  republic  of  Yenice  came  next  m  antiquity.  Bnt 
the  republic  of  Yenice  was  modem  when  compared  with  the 
papacy ;  and  the  republic  of  Yenice  is  gone,  and  the  papacy 
remains,  not  in  decay,  not  a  mere  antique,  but  full  of  life  and 
youthful  vigor.  The  Catholic  Church  is  still  sendii^  to  the 
farthest  ends  of  the  world  missionaries  as  zealous  as  those 
who  landed  in  Kent  with  St.  Augustin,  and  still  confronting 
hostile  kings  with  the  same  spirit  with  which  she  confronted 
Attila. 

4.  The  number  of  her  children  is  greater  than  in  any  for- 
mer age.  Her  acquisitions  in  the  New  World  have  more  than 
compensated  her  for  what  she  has  lost  in  the  Old.  Her  spiritual 
ascendency  extends  over  the  vast  countries  which  lie  between 
the  plains  of  Missouri  and  Cape  Horn ;  countries  which,  a 
cent ; '7  hf  nje,  may  not  improbably  contain  a  population  as 
large  as  that  which  r»aw  inhabits  Europe.  The  members  of 
her  communion  are  certainly  not  fewer  than  two  hundred  mil- 
lions. Nor  do  we  see  any  sign  which  indicates  that  the  term 
of  her  long  dominion  is  approaching. 

5.  She  saw  the  commencement  of  all  the  governments  and 
of  all  the  ecclesiastical  establishments  that  now  exist  in  the 
world,  and  feels  no  assurance  that  she  is  not  destined  to  see 
the  end  of  them  alL  She  was  respected  before  the  Saxon  had 
set  foot  in  Britain,  before  the  Frank  had  passed  the  Rhine, 
when  Grecian  eloquence  still  flourished  at  Autioch,  when  idols 
were  stiU  worshipped  in  the  temple  of  Mecca ;  and  she  may 
stUl  exist  in  undiminished  vigor,  when  some  traveller  from 


WKLCOMK  TO  YIIK  RHINK. 


188 


jstitatioQ  «Bfew  Zealand  shall,  in  the  midst  of  a  yast  solitude,  take  his 
^une  wheiBand  opon  a  broken  arch  of  London  Bridge,  to  sketch  the 
and  wlieiiBDing  of  St.  Paul's. 


«y,  whea 

That  line  I 

[pope  wliof 

pope  who! 

^e  of  Pe.  I 

%.    ] 

with  the 

he  papacj 

•f  life  and 

ng  to  the 

as  those 

•nfronting 

onfronted 


40.  Welcome  to  the  Bhime. 

The  Oemuui  urmj  of  lib«r»ton,  on  their  return  from  Fnmoe,  an  takd  to 
IhkTe  bunt  into  a  iMtional  chant  of  welcome  to  the  Bbme,  on  coming  in 
[  light  of  that  celebrated  river. 

The  ohcras  of  this  song  is  well  adapted  for  the  purpose  of  simultaneons 

I  neding  in  class. 

SINGLE  YOIOK. 

IT  is  the  RUno !  onr  moontfdn  vineyards  laving, 
I  see  the  bright  flood  shine  1 
Sing  on  the  march,  with  every  banner  waving— 
Sing,  brothers,  'tis  the  Bhine ! 


SI 


^t 


I  any  for. 
lore  than 
spiritnal 
between 
which,  a 
ition  OS 
ibers  of 
red  mil- 
ie  term 

its  and 
in  the 
to  see 
>nhad 
Jhine, 
1  idols 
t  may 
from 


CHORUS. 


The  Bhine !  the  Bhine  I  our  own  imperial  river ! 

Be  glory  on  thy  track ! 
We  left  thy  shores,  to  die  or  to  deliver ; — 

We  bear  thee  Freedom  back  t 


m 


SINGLE  VOICE. 


Hail  I  hail  I  my  childhood  knew  thy  rush  of  water, 

Even  as  my  mother's  song ; 
That  sound  went  past  me  on  the  field  of  slaughter, 

And  heart  and  arm  grew  strong  1 


CHOBUS. 


Roll  proudly  on  t — ^brave  blood  is  with  thee  sweepings 

Pour'd  out  by  sons  of  thine, 
Where  sword  and  spirit  forth  in  joy  were  leaping, 

Like  thee,  victorious  Bhine  ! 


,**.• 


184 


TDK   TIIIUI)    UKAUKIt. 


f 


SINGLE   VOIOB. 

Home  1 — hom()  ! — thy  glad  wave  hath  a  tone  of  grcethig, 

Thy  path  is  by  ray  home  : 
Even  now  my  children  count  tlie  hours  till  meeting. 

Oh,  ransom'd  ones,  I  come  I 


CH0RV8. 


Go,  tell  the  seas  that  chain  shall  bind  thee  never, 

Sound  on  by  hearth  and  shrine  I 
Sinp:  through  the  hills  that  thou  art  free  forever  — 

Lift  up  thy  voice,  O  lUiine  ! 


THE  BICE  iirVF;. 


18ft 


41.  Xbx  Bse-uivs. 

NATUEE  affords  bnt  few  more  striMi^  evidences  of  thft 
wisdom  and  benevolence  of  the  Creator,  than  may  be  ob- 
served in  the  labors  of  bees.  The  observer  is  at  a  loss  which 
to  admire  most,  the  wonderful  manner  in  which  these  insects 
are  adapted  to  their  circumstances,  or  the  unity,  industry, 
I  loyalty,  and  sagacity  which  prevail  among  them. 

2.  When  they  begin  to  work  in  their  hives,  they  divide 
themselves  into  four  companies ;  one  of  which  roves  the  fields 
in  search  of  materials ;  another  employs  itself  in  laying  oat 
I  the  bottom  and  partitions  of  their  cells ;  a  third  is  employed 
ia  smoothing  the  walls ;  and  the  fourth  company  brings  food 
for  the  rest,  or  relieves  those  who  return  with  their  respective 
burdens. 

3  But  they  are  not  kept  constantly  at  one  employment  | 
they  oft  on  change  the  tasks  assigned  tliem  ;  tlioso  that  have 
been  at  work,  being  pertnilind  to  go  abroad,  and  thuse  that 
have  been  in  the  fields  take  1  heir  plnces. 

4.  They  seem  even  to  have  signs  by  which  they  iiiiilerstaiid 
each  other ;  for  when  any  of  them  wants  food,  he  holds  out 
his  trunk  towards  the  bee  from  which  he  expects  it.  The 
latter,  understandmg  the  desire  of  his  companion,  |pi||}e4illl'P)| 


-'I 


•  Si- 


ii'. 


f  I 


186 


TUB  TQISD   READKR. 


TH 


deposits  for  his  ase  a  small  qaantity  of  honey.  ThoirdlligeQ 
and  labor  are  so  great  that  in  a  few  dayp     ey  are  enabled 
make  cells  snfBcient  for  several  thonsaui    ees.    In  the  pk 
and  formation  of  these  cells  they  display  t  fonderful  sagacitjj 
6.  The  danger  of  being  stong  by  bees,  may  be  in  a  greaj 
measure  prevented  by  remaining  qnlet.    A  thonsand  bocs  wlij 
fly  and  bozx  about  a  person  without  hurting  hiin,  if  he  stati 
perfectly  still  and  does  not  disturb  them  even  if  they  are  neal 
his  face.    It  is  said  that  a  person  is  in  perfect,  safety  in  thj 
midst  of  a  swarm  of  bees,  if  he  is  careful  to  shut  his  montl^ 
and  breathe  gently  through  his  nostrils. 

6.  Many  amnsfaig  stories  are  told  about  the  effect  "oroduce* 
by  the  sting  of  bees.  In  1825,  a  mob  attacked  the  honse  oj 
a  gentleman  in  Germany.  He  endeavored  in  vain  to  dissua 
them  firom  their  des^pis ;  at  length  when  every  thing  else  h 
failed,  he  ordered  his  servants  to  bring  a  large  bee-hive  wludl 
he  threw  into  the  midst  of  the  enraged  multitude.  The  resuil 
answered  his  expectations.  The  mobites,  stung  by  the  bal 
immediately  fled  in  all  directions,  and  thus  gave  the  gcDtleinaii| 
time  to  escape  from  their  fury. 

7.  Bees  have  one  fault  common  to  bad  boys,  they  areui-] 
clmed  to  fight  among  themselves.  Quarrels  and  combats  m\ 
frequent  among  them.  Sometimes  it  seems  that  their  contests! 
are  commenced  in  the  hive,  as  the  combatants  may  ofteu  bel 
seen  coming  out  in  the  greatest  fury,  and  joining  in  the  deadly  I 
strife  the  moment  they  reach  the  door  of  the  hive.  In  somtl 
cases  a  bee  {>;aceably  settled  on  the  outside  of  the  hive  is  rude-j 
ly  jostled  by  another,  and  then  a  fierce  struggle  is  commenced,] 
each  endeavoring  to  obtam  the  advantage  of  the  position. 

8.  They  turn,  dance  about,  throttle  each  other,  and  such  is  I 
their  bitter  eagerness,  that  a  person  can  approach  near  to  them  | 
without  theu*  perceiving  it.    Other  times,  the  combat  take 
place  in  the  hive,  and  in  those  cases  the  contest  usually  con 
tlnues  until  one  kills  the  other ;  then  the  victor  takes  up  the 
dead  body  of  his  antagonist  and  carries  it  outside  the  hive. 

9.  Bees  are  remarkable  for  their  industry,  and  those  among  I 
them  that  will  not,  or  cannot  work,  are  driven  from  the  hire  I 
«nd  not  permitted  to  return. 


42.  T 

Look,  d< 
Langiud 

2.  See,  ho^ 
Look,  h 
Even  th 
And  sea 


3.  Poor  T 
And  th 
And  pa 
WithotJ 

4.  There  f 
But  vei 
Andhc 
That  s< 


THB  OHILDS   VflHU    IN  JUNK. 


187 


42.  The  Child's  Wish  in  Jcn 

1   Tl/r OTHER,  dear  mother,  the  wu 
lYl.  Prithee,  let  me  be  idle  to-day : 
Look,  dear  mother,  the  flowers  all  Ho 
Langoidlj,  under  the  bright  blae  skj. 

2.  See,  how  slowly  the  streamlet  glides ; 
Look,  how  the  violet  roguishly  hides ; 
£vea  the  botterfly  rests  on  the  rose. 
And  scarcely  sips  the  sweets  as  he  goes. 

3.  Poor  Tray  is  asleep  in  the  noonday  snc, 
And  the  flies  go  about  him  one  by  one ; 
And  pussy  sits  near  with  a  sleepy  grace, 
Without  ever  thinking  of  washing  her  face. 

i.  There  flies  a  bird  to  a  neighboring  tree, 
But  very  lazily  flieth  he. 
And  he  sits  and  twitters  a  gentle  note, 
That  scarcely  ruffles  his  little  throat. 

5.  Yon  bid  me  be  busy ;  but,  mother,  hear 
How  the  humdrum  grasshopper  soundeth  near ; 
And  the  soft  west  wind  is  so  light  in  its  plaj, 
It  scarcely  moves  a  leaf  on  the  spray. 

6.  I  wish,  oh,  I  wish  I  was  yonder  cloud, 
That  sails  about  with  its  misty  shroud ; 
Books  and  work  I  no  more  should  see, 

And  I'd  come  and  float,  dear  mother,  o'er  thee 


Tl 


ti'V 


T!J.' 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


Lili 

11.25 


itt  Uii  12.2 


lit 

Bt 

IS 


14^0 


-    6" 


% 


.V 


0 


y: 


7 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WIST  MAIN  STMIT 

WIBSTIR,N.Y.  14SM 

(716)«72-4S03 


4^ 


4u 


1 


188 


THE  TH1BP  BBA.DEB. 


h 


43.  The  Mabtyb's  Bot. 

WE  have  a  tale  to  tell  our  yonng  readers,  of  Borne  in^ 
early  days  of  Christianity. 

In  the  third  ^ntnry  after  Christ,  towards  the  dose  ot| 
mild  September  day,  in  one  of  the  most  hnposing  pm 
boildings,  dwelt  a  noble  Roman  matron. 

At  the  time  that  we  discover  her  she  is  bnsily  engaged  i 
a  piece  of  work,  which  evidently  has  no  persoiud  'tue.   Uiii 
a  long  rich  strip  of  gold  cloth  she  is  embroidering  with 
richer  gold  thread ;  and  occasionally  she  has  recourse  to 
or  another  of  several  el^ant  caskets  npon  the  table, : 
which  she  takes  out  a  pearl,  or  a  gem  set  in  gold,  and  inti 
duces  it  into  the  design.    It  looks  as  if  the  predons  on 
ments  of  earlier  days  were  being  devoted  to  some 
purpose. 

3.  But  as  time  goes  on,  some  little  uneariness  may  be  < 
served  to  come  over  her  calm  thoughts,  hitherto  absorbed,  t 
aU  appearance,  in  her  work.    She  now  occasionally  raises 
.  eyes  from  it  towards  the  entoanoe ;  sometimes  she  listens  I 
footsteps,  and  seems  disappointed.    She  Iboks  up  towards  i 
sun;  then  perhaps  tarns  her  glance  towards  a  ciepsydnt 
water-dodE,  on  a  bracket  near  her ;  but  Jns^  as  a  feeling  i 
more  serious  anslety  begins  to  make  an  impression  on 
countenance,  a  cheerftd  rap  strikes  the  honse^loor,  and 
bends  forward  with  a  radiuit  look  to  meet  the  welcome  visiti 

8.  It  is  a  youth  (tall  of  grace,  and  sprighi^iness,  aAd  candoi^ 
that  comes  forward  with  light  and  buoyant  steps  across  tbi 
atrium,  towards  the  inner  hall ;  and  we  shall  hardly  find  tin 
to  sketch  him  before  he  readies  it.    He  is  about  foorteal 
years  old,  but  tall  for  that  age,  with  elegance  of  form 
manliness  of  bearing.  His  bare  neck  and  limbs  are  well  devdrl 
oped  by  healthy  exercise ;  his  features  display  an  open 
warm  heart;*  whfle  his  lofty  forehead,  round  whid)  his  brotnl 
hair  naturally  curls,  beams  with  a  bright  intelligence.  A  bnit>| 
die  of  papers  and  vellum  rolls  fastened  together^  and  carnedj 


THE  MABTYB  5   DOT. 


189 


fan  old  servant  behind  him,  shows  us  that  he  is  jost  retnm- 
•  home  from  school. 

U.  While  we  have  been  thns  noting  him,  he  has  received  his 

jother's  embrace,  and  has  set  hunself  low  by  her  feet.    She 

opon  him  for  sotne  time  in  silence,  as  if  to  discover  in 

conntenance  the  cause  of  his  unusual  delay,  for  he  is  an 

bnr  late  in  his  retnm.    But  he  meets  her  glance  with  so 

nk  a  look,  and  with  such  a  smile  of  innocence,  that  every 

ond  of  doubt  is  in  a  moment  dispelled,  and  she  addresses  him 

I  follows : 

1 5.  "What  has  detained  yon  to-day,  ny  dearest  boy?    No 
cident,  I  trust,  has  happened  to  you  on  the  way  ?" 
"  Oh,  none,  I  assure  you,  sweetest  mother ;  on  the  contrary, 
I  has  been  delightful, — so  much  so,  that  I  can  scarcely  ven- 
I  to  tell  you." 

A  look  of  smiling  expostulation  drew  from  the  open-hearted 
07  a  delidous  laugh  as  he  continued : 
6.  "  Well,  I  sujqsose.I  must.  Ton  know  I  am  never  happj, 
od  cannot  sleep,  if  I  have  failed  to  tell  you  all  the  Iwd  and 
be  good  of  the  day  about  myself."  (The  mother  smiled  again, 
ondering  what  the  bad  iras.)  "I  was  reading  the  other  day 
at  the  S<7thians  each  evening  cast  into  an  urn  a  white  or  a 
^lack  stone,  accordb^  as  the  day  had  been  haj^y  or  unhappy; 
I  had  to  do  so,  it-«would  serve  to  mark,  in  white  or  black, 
he  days  on  which  I  have,  or  have  not,  an  opportnnity  of  re> 
to  you  all  that  I  have  done.    But  to-day,  for  the  first 
ne,  I  have  a  doubt,  a  fear  of  consdenoe,  whether  I  ought  to 
eUyouiJl." 

1.  Did' the  mother's  heart  flutter  more  than  usual,  as  from 
first  taadety,  or  was  there  a  softer  soUdtude  dimnung  her 
bye,  that  thb  youth  should  seize  her  hand  and  put  it  tenderly 
>  his  lips  while  he  thus  replied! 

"Fear  nothing,  mother  most  beloved,  your  son  has  done 
Inothing  that  may  give  yon  pain.  Only  say,  do  yon  wish  to 
Ihear  aU  that  has  befallen  me  to-day,  or  only  the  cause  of  my 
I  late  return  home?" 

"Tell  me  all,  dear  Pancratius,"  she  answered;  "nothing 
I  that  concerns  yo«  can  be  faidifrerent  to  me." 


I 


190 


THB  TBIBD  BBADSB. 


8.  "  Well,  then,"  he  began,  "this  Uist  day  of  my  fireqaa 
ing  school  appears  to  me  to  have  been  singidarly  blessed,! 
yet  fall  of  strange  oocnrrences.    First,  I  was  crowned  as 
succeasfal  competitor  in  a  declamation,  which  our  good 
ter  Oassianns  set  as  for  oar  work  daring  the  morning  he 
and  this  led,  as  you  will  hear,  to  some  singalar  diBcoveri 
The  sabject  was, '  That  the  real  philosopher  shoald  be  en 
Toady  to  die  for  trath.'    I  never  heard  any  thing  so  i 
insipid  (I  hope  it  is  not  wrong  to  say  so)  as  the  compositio 
read  by  my  companions.  It  was  not  their  fanlt,  poor  fellow 
what  trath  can  they  possess,  and  what  indacemen^  can  th 
have,  to  die  for  any  of  thdr  rain  opinions. 

9.  "  Bat  to  a^Ohristian,  what  charming  snggestions  sachj 
theme  nataraUy  makes  1   And  so  I  felt  it.    My  heart  glowo 
and  all  my  thoaghts  seemed  to  bam,  as  I  wrote  my  essay,  fuj 
of  the  lessons  you  have  taaght  me,  and  of  the  domestic  es 
pies  that  are  before  me.    The  son  of  a  martyr  conld  not  fei 
otherwise.    Bat  when  my  tarn  came  to  read  my  declamation 
I  found  that  my  feelings  had  nearly  fatally  betrayed  me. 
the  warmth  of  my  recitation,  the  word '  Christian'  escaped  ni 
lips  instead  of  'philosopher,'  and  'fait*      wtead  of  'trath.1 
At  the  first  mistake,  I  saw  Oassiaafu  st        at  the  second,  1 
saw  a  tear  ^ten  in  hiseye^  as  bending  affecUonatoly  towa 
me,  he  said,  ic  a  whispor, '  Beware,  my  ehild ;  there  are  sh 
ears  listening.' "  ; 

10.  "  What,  then,"  interrapted  the  mother  "  is  Cassianos  \ 
Ohristian  7  I  chose  his  school  for  yoa  becaase  it  was  in  tU 
highest  repate  for  learning  and  for  morality ;  and  now,  indeed,! 
I  thank  Ood  that  I  did  so.  Bat  in  these  days  of  danger  aodl 
a{qirebension  we  are  oUiged  to  liye  as  strtfngers  in  oar  owbI 
land,  scarcely  knowing  the  faces  of  oar  brethren.  Certainly,! 
had  Cassianos  proclaimed  his  faith,  his  school  woold  soon  havel 
been  deserted.  Bat  go  on,  my  dear  boy.  W^re  his  appie-l 
hensions  well  grounded  ?" 

11.  "I  fear  so ;  for  while  the  great  hg^j  of  my  schoolfel I 
lows,  not  noticing  these  slips,  vehemently  applauded  my  heartjl 
declamation,  I  saw  the  dark  eyes  of  C^n^^os  bent  scowlin(^}| 
vpon  me,  as  he  bit  his  lip  in  manifest  io$t^** 


TBM  UAxmrB  Bor. 


191 


|«Aod  who  is  he,  my  child,  that  was  so  displeased,  and 

efore?" 

I  "He  is  the  oldest  and  strongest,  bat,  nnfortnnately,  the 

Dest  boy  in  the  school    Bat  this,  yoa  know,  is  not  his 

Oidy,  I  know  not  why,  he  seems  eyer  to  haye  had  an 

^will  and  gradge  against  me,  the  canse  of  which  I  camiot 

dentand.'' 

I "  Did  he  say  aaght  to  yoo,  or  do  7" 

Vi.  "Tes,  and  was  the  canse  of  my  delay.    For  when  we 

^ent  forth  from  school  into  the  field  by  the  riyer,  he  addressed 

insnltingly  in  the  presence  of  oar  conqwnions,  and  said, 

|Come,  Fancratins,  this,  I  nnderstand,  is  the  last  time  we 

et  here  (he  laid  a  particnlar  emphasis  on  the  word) ;  bat  I 

are  a  long  score  to  denumd  payment  of  from  yoa.  Ton  haye 

to  show  yoar  saperiority  in  school  oyer  me  and  otherx 

(ider  and  better  than  yonrself:  I  saw  yonr  saperdlioas  looks 

;  me  as  yoa  spoated  yoar  high-flown  d<Hdamation  to-day ;  ay, 

1 1  canght  expressions  in  it  which  yon  may  liye  to  roe,  and 

at  yery  soon ;  for  my  father,  yoa  well  know,  is  Prefect  of 

I  dty  (the  mother  slightly  started) ;  and  something  is  pre- 

wbich  may  nearly  concern  yoa.    Before  yoa  leaye  as 

'.  most  haye  my  reyenge.    If  yon  are  worthy  of  yoar  name, 

it  be^  not  an  empty  word,*  let  ns  fi^ly  contend  in  more 

dy  strife  than  that  of  the  style  and  t^bles.f  Wrestie  with 

n,  or  try  the  cestas|  against  me.    I  bam  to  hamble  yoa  as 

idesenre  before  these  witnesses  of  yoar  insolent  trinmphs.'  ** 

18.  The  anzioas  mother  bent  eagerly  forward  as  she  listened, 

scarcely  breathed.    ".Ajad  what,"  she  exclaimed,  "did 

oa  answer,  my  dear  son  T' 

"I  told  Um  gently  that  he  was  qnite  ndstaken ;  for  neyer 
Ihad  I  conscionsfy  done  any  thing  that  coald  giye  pain  to  him 
lor  any  of  my  schoolfellows ;  nw  did  I  eyer  dream  of  clidming 


*  Th9  paneratinm  wu  Um  exeraiM  which  oombined  all  other  perBonal 
|(ontesto;  wraitUng,  boxing,  Ao, 

t  The  imptleoMntf  of  wiitiog  in  cohoolt,  the  tablets  being  oovend  with 
|*u,  on  vMoh  the  ItjUn  were  traced  by  the  sharp  point,  and  efitoed  b-r 
I  the  flat  top,  of  the  alyle. 

{  The  hiuid-bandaffriHrom  in  png^liatic  oombats. 


193 


TBB  THIRD  RBADKB. 


iaperiority  orer  them.    'And  as  to  what  yoa  proposei'f 
added,  'yoa  know,  Oorrinns,  that  I  have  always  refosedl 
indulge  in  personal  combats,  which,  beginning  in  a  cool 
of  skill,  end  in  an  angry  strife,  hatred,  and  wish  for  reTe 

14.  "  '  How  much  less  conld  I  think  of  entering  on 
now,  when  yoa,aTOw  that  yoa  are  audoos  to  b^^  them  ] 
those  evil  feelings  which  are  nsnally  their  bad  end?' 
schoohnates  had  now  formed  a  circle  ronnd  as ;  and  I  de 
saw  that  they  were  all  against  me,  for  they  had  hoped  to  ( 
some  of  the  delights  of  their  cruel  games ;  I  therefore  cha 
fully  added,  'And  now,  my  comrades,  good-by,  dpd  mayi 
happnesp  attend  you.    I  part  from  you  as  I  have  lived ' 
you,  in  peace.'    '  Not  so,'  replied  Corrinns,  now  purple  in  1 
face  with  fury  j  *  but'  " — 

15.  The  boy's  countenance  became  crimsoned,  his  tohJ 
quivered,  his  body  trembled,  and,  half  choked,  he  sobbed  i 
"  I  cannot  go  on ;  I  dare  not  teU  the  rest !" 

"  I  entreat  yoa,  for  God's  sake,  and  for  the  lore  yoa 
your  father's  memory,"  sud  the  mother,  placing  her 
upon  her  son's  head,  "  conceal  nothing  from  me.  I  shall  octi 
again  have  rest  if  you  tell  me  not  alL    What  fiirther  said 
did  Gorvinus?" 

The  boy  recovered  himself  by  a  moment's  pause  and  a  i 
prayer,  and  then  proceeded : 

16.  "  'Not  so  I'  exclaimed  Oorvinns,  'not  so  do  you  dep 
cowurdly  worshipper  of  an  ass's  head !    Yoa  have  coi 
your  abode  from  us,  but  I  will  iBnd  you  oot ;  tiU  then  1 
this  token  of  my  determined  purpose  to  be  revenged  1' 
saying  he  dealt  me  a  furious  blow  i^n  tho^face,  which 
me  reel  and  stagger,  wMle  a  shout  of  savage  delight 

o<;th  from  the  boys  aroond  us.'^ 
He  burst  into  tears,  wlpdi  reeved  him,  and  then  went  <n.| 


THk  mabttb's  bot. 


108 


44.  Thb  Maktb'b  Bot — concluded. 

I,  how  I  felt  my  blood  boil  at  that  moment  t  how  my 
lieart  seemed  bnntiDg  within  me ;  and  a  voice  appeared 
Iffhisper  in  my  ear  scomAilly  the  name  of  'coward!'  It. 
WM  an  evil  siurit.  I  felt  that  I  was  strong  enongh — 
rruDg  anger  made  me  so— to  seize  my  nqjost  assailant  by 
I  throat,  and  cast  him  gaqung  on  the  ground.  I  heard  al- 
Aj  the  shont  of  applause  that  wonld  haye  hailed  my  victory 
I  tomed  the  tables  against  him.  It  was  the  hardest  stmg- 
lof  my  life ;  never  were  flesh  and  blood  so  strong  within 

0  God  I  may  they  never  be  again  so  tremendously  pow- 

Ijii 

'And  what  did  you  do,  then,  my  darling  boy?"  gasped 
1  the  tr«nbling  matron. 
1 8.  He  replied,  "  Hy  good  angel  conquered  the  demon  at  my 

1  thought  of  my  blessed  Lord  in  the  house  of  Gaii^ias, 
oonded  by  scoffing  memies,  and  struck  ignominioudy  on 

)  cheek,  yet  meek  and  forgiving.    Gould  I  wish  to  be  other- 

9  ?   I  stretched  forth  my  hand  to  Oorvinus,  and  sud, '  May 

^  forgive  you,  as  I  freely  and  fully  do ;  and  may  he  Uess 

1  abundanUy.'    Gasmanus  came  up  at  that  moment,  having 

all  from  a  distance,  and  the  youthful  crowd  quickly  dis- 

I  entreated  him,  by  our  conmion  faith,  now  acknowt 

between  us,  not  to  pursue  Gorvinns  for  wbnt  he  had 

^ne ;  and  I  obtained  his  promise.    And  now,  sweet  mother,'' 

inmured  the  boy,  in  soft,  gentle  accents,  into  his  parent's 

|b(ffiom,  "  do  you  not  tUnk  I  may  call  this  a  happy  day  7" 

8.  SSently,  and  ahnost  unknowingly,  he  had  changed  his 

Ipodtion,  and  was  kneeling  before  her;  and  well  he  might; 

'  was  die  not  to  him  as  a  guardian  spirit,  who  had  shielded 

I  him  ever  from  evil ;  or  might  he  not  well  see  in  her  the  living 

laint  whose  vhrtues  had  been  Ms  model  from  childhood  ?    Ln- 

I  dna  broke  the  silence,  ia  a  tone  full  of  grave  emotion. 

4.  "  The  time  has  at  Iragth  come,  my  dear  child,"  she  sdd, 


IN 


THB  TBIBD  RUADKB. 


**  which  has  long  been  the  subject  of  my  earnest  prayer, 
I  have  yearned  for  in  the  exuberance  of  maternal  love, 
ly  have  I  watdied  in  thee  the  opening  germ  of  each  CI 
yirtne,  and  thanked  God  as  it  appeared.  I  haye  noted  I 
docility,  thy  gentleness,  thy  cUligence,  thy  piety,  and  thy] 
of  God  and  man.  I  haye  seen  with  Joy  tiiy  Uydy  faith,  i 
thy  indiflieirenoe  tc  worldly  things,  and  thy  tenderness  to  i 
poor.  But  I  haye  been  waiting  with  amdety  for  the 
which  should  dedsiyely  show  me,  whether  thou  wonldst  1 
content  with  the  poor  legacy  of  thy  mother's  weakly 
or  art  the  true  inheritor  of  thy  mar^rred  father's  i^obler  | 
That  hour,  thank  God,  has  come  to^y  t" 

6.  **  What  haye  I  done,  thet,  that  shouM  thus  l«.ye  i 
or  raised  thy  opinion  of  me?"  adted  Pancratfais. 

"listen  to  me,  my  son.    lliisday,  which  was  to  be  tbel 
of  thy  school  education,  methlnks  that  our  merciful  Lord 
been  pleased  to  giye  thee  ft  lesson  worth  it  all ;  and  to  proij 
that  thou  hast  put  off  the  things  of  a  child,  and  must  be  1 
henceforth  as  a  man ;  for  thou  canst  thiiik  and  speak,  yes,  i 
act  as  one." 

**  How  dost  tlion  mean,  dear  mother?" 

6.  "  What  thou  hast  told  me  of  thy  declamation  this  mon 


"Whatisthi 
10.  "Itishii 
lllowmg  in  my 


ing,"  she  replied,  "proyes  to  me  how  fhll  thy  heart  must  haTBvish  that  it  to< 


been  of  noble  and  generous  thoughts;  thou  art  too  sincere  i 
honest  to  haye  written,  and  f eryently  expressed,  that  it  inu  i 
glorious  duty  to  die  for  the  fldtb,  if  thop  hadst  not  belieTo 
it,  and  felt  it." 

"  And  truly  I  do  beHeye  and  fSsel  it,"  interrupted  the  bojj 
"  What  greater  hajqsiness  can  a  Ohristian  desire  on  earth?" 

1.  "Yes,  my  diild,  thou  layest  most  teuly,"  continued Lv 
dna.    "But  I  should  not  haye  bem  satisfied  with  wor 
What  followed  afterwards  has  inrayed  to  me  tiiat  thou 
beur  iirtrq»idly  and  patiently,  not  aerely  pain,  but  what  !■  inheritance,  t 
know  it  must  haye  been  haider  for  thy  young  patrician  bloodi  i,ave  conceal< 
to  stand,  the  stingh^  q;nominy  of  a  disgraceful  blow,  and  UmI  than  gold  an 
scornful  words  and  gliuices  of  an  unpitying  multitude.    Nayl  tbee." 
more ;  thou  hast  proyed  thyself  strong  enough  to  foi^ye  audi     12.  With 
to  iHray  for  thine  enemy.    Tlds  day  thou  hast  trodden  tbel  golden  chaii 


ontinloyeof  1 

"Enough,  ei 

ing  with  a  hoi 

childhood,  I  h 

Heobey®^ 
U.  «»Thou 

mother,  with 
liigh  station, 
there  is  one  t 


TUK  MAftrnes  bot. 


196 


her  pathi  of  the  moontain,  with  the  cross  npon  thy  shouMen ; 

I  step  more,  and  thou  wilt  plant  it  on  its  sunmit.    Thon 

;  proved  thyself  the  genuine  son  of  the  martyr  Qatetinos 

thon  wish  to  be  like  him?'' 

1 8.  "  Mother,  mother  t  dearest,  sweetc»t  mother  1''  broke  out 

I  paothig  youth ;  "  could  I  be  his  genuine  son,  and  not  wish 

I  resemble  hhn?    Though  1  uerer  ei\)oyed  the  happiness  of 

owing  him,  has  not  his  hnage  been  erer  before  my  mind? 

las  he  not  been  the  rery  pride  of  my  thoughts  ? 

9.  "  When  each  year  the  solemn  commemoration  lua  been 
de  of  him,  as  of  one  of  the.  white-robed  anuy  that  surrounds 

lie  Lamb,  in  whose  blood  he  washed  his  garments,  how  hare 

bj  lieart  and  my  flesh  exulted  in  his  glory ;  and  how  have  I 

ayed  to  hun,  in  the  warmth  of  filial  piety,  that  he  would  ob- 

I  for  me,  not  fame,  not  distinction,  not  wealth,  not  earthly 

boi  what  he  yalned  more  than  all  these :  nay,  that  the 

jnlj  thing  which  he  has  left  on  earth  may  be  appUed,  as  I 

now  he  now  considers  it  would  most  usefuUy  and  most  nobly 

b" 

"  What  is  that,  my  son?'' 

10.  "It  is  his  blood,"  replied  the  youth,  "which  yet  remains 
lllowing  in  my  veins,  and  in  these  only.  I  know  he  must 
Iwish  that  it  too,  like  what  he  held  in  his  own,  may  be  poured 
|oat  in  love  of  his  Redeemer,  and -in  testimony  of  his  faith." 

"Enough,  enough,  my  cUldl"  exclaimed  the  mother,  thrill- 
ling  with  a  holy  emotion ;  "  take  from  thy  neck  the  badge  of 
[chOdbood,  I  have  a  better  token  to  give  thee." 

He  obeyed!  and  put  away  the  golden  bulla. 

11.  "Thou  hast  inherited  from  thy  father,"  spoke  the 
I  mother,  with  still  deeper  solemnity  of  tone,  "  a  noble  name,  a 

bigb  station,  ample  riches,  every  worldly  advantage.  But 
there  is  ofie  treasure  which  I  have  reserved  for  thee  from  Us 
bheritance,  till  thou  shouldst  prove  thyself  worthy  of  it.  ■  1 
have  concealed  it  from  thee  till  now ;  though  I  valued  it  more 
than  gold  and  Jewels.  It  is  now  time  that  I  make  it  over  to 
thee." 

12.  With  trembling  hands  she  drew  from  her  neck  the 
golden  chain  which  hung  round  it ;  and  for  the  first  time  hoc 


106 


TUB  TIIIKD  RUADKR. 


son  Raw  that  it  sapported  a  small  bag  or  parse  richly 
broidcred  with  pearls.    She  opened  it,  and  \  drew  from  it 
«ponge,  dry  indeed,  but  deeply  stained. 

"This,  too,  is  thy  father's  blood,  Pancratins,"  she  u!i 
with  faltering  voice  and  streamhig  eyes.  "  I  gathered  it  m 
self  from  his  death-wound,  as,  disgnised,  I  stood  by  his  gidi 
and  saw  hun  die  for  Christ." 

She  gazed  npon  it  fondly,  and  kissed  it  fervently ;  and  hcj 
gashing  tears  fell  on  it,  and  moistened  it  once  more.  Au 
thas  liqaefied  again,  its  color  glowed  bright  and  warm,  as  if  ii 
had  only  jnst  left  the  martyr's  heart.  \ 

13.  The  holy  matron  pat  it  to  her  son's  qnivering  hps,  m 
they  were  empnrpled  with  its  sanctifying  toach.  He  venerati 
the  sacred  relic  with  the  deepest  emotions  of  a  Christian  andl 
a  son ;  and  felt  as  if  his  father's  spirit  had  descended  into  hiin, 
and  stirred  to  its  depths  the  fall  vessel  of  his  heart,  that  ita 
waters  might  be  ready  freely  to  flow.  The  whole  family  thus' 
seemed  to  him  once  more  united. 

14.  Lucina  replaced  her  treasure  in  its  shrine,  and  hang  iti 
round  the  neck  of  her  son,  saying :  "When  next  it  is  moist- 
ened, may  it  be  from  a  nobler  stream  than.that  which  goshei 
from  a  weak  woman's  eyes  1"  But  Heaven  thought  not  8o; 
and  the  future  combatant  was  anointed,  and  the  future  martyr 
was  consecrated,  by  the  blood  of  his  father  mingled  with  his 
mother's  tears. 


9.  la  a  son 
,ore  happy  thai 
ipon  earth.    SI 

lod,  and  in  CO 
Ibwjkbyasolei 


45.  Anna's  Offxrino  of  Samuel. 

SAMUEL,  a  renowned  and  holy  prophet,  was  from  his  in* 
fancy  trained  up  to  virtue.  Anna,  his  mother,  had  for 
many  years  been  married  to  Elcana,  without  having  any  chil- 
dren. Overwhelmed  with  the  excess  of  sorrow,  she  wept  and 
prayed  to  God  for  comfort  to  her  affliction ;  she  joined  fasting 
to  her  prayers,  and  bound  herself  by  vow,  if  she  should  obtaiQ 
a  son,  to  consecrate  him  all  the  days  of  his  life  to  the  divine 
service.  Samuel  was  the  fruit  of  his  mother's  piety,  and  the 
recompense  of  her  faith. 


ANMA*8  OFFEBIMO  OF  BAl^UBL. 


197 


9.  In  a  son  like  him,  says  St.  Ghrysostom,  Anna  became 
pore  happy  than  if  she  had  been  mother  of  the  greatest  prince 
jipon  earth.  She  received  him  as  a  present  firom  the  hand  of 
}od,  and  in  compliance  with  her  tow,  hastened  to  give  him 

clc  by  a  solemn  act  of  religion. 


8.  As  soon  as  she  had  weaned  him,  she  carried  him  to  the 
tabemade^  pnt  him  into  the  hands  of  Hell  the  high-priest,  and 
consecrated  hun  irreyocably,  as  she  had  promised,  to  the  ser* 
vice  of  her  Creator.  Gratitude  and  piety  alone  gnided  the 
tender  feelings  of  her  lore ;  she  parted  with  her  child  at  a 


".■Vj,my : 


198 


TBB  THIBD  BBAOKB. 


time  wboD  the  ohftrmi  tad  Bmiles  of  innocence  made  him 
more  dear.    She  knew  what  was  good  for  her  ion,  and  wh 
was  acceptable  to  Qod. 

4.  Her  sacrifice  hi  some  sort  seems  to  resemble  that 
Abraham.  She  offered  to  God  her  darUng,  her  only  son; 
offered  him  for  life,  and  "Stripped  herself  of  all  fatnre  claii 
over  him.  The  mother's  piety  was  repaid  by  the  Tirtnea 
her  son.  The  little  Samnd  ministered  to  the  Lord  ondeil 
Heli's  direction  by  day,  and  at  night  slept  within  the  tabe^| 
nacle,  near  the  ark  of  Qod,  and  there  It  was  that  Ood  faTondl 
hfan  with  a  spedal  reyelation,  the  preparatory  walk  of  m 
futore  greatness. 

6.  Daring  the  sQenoe  of  the  idght,  he  heard  a  rdce  callingl 
him  by  his  name;  unskilled  as  yet  hi  the  langnage  of  the] 
Lord,  the  holy  yonth  thonght  that  it  had  been  Hell's  Toice, 
hastfly  rose,  and  asked  him  what  he  wanted.  Hell  told  him 
he  had  not  called,  bade  Urn  go  and  compose  himself  to  sleep. 
Samuel  had  scarce  liUd  himself  down,  when  the  same  voice 
called  hhn  np  agahi ;  he  ran  to  the  high  priest,  who  ordered 
him  to  return  and  sleep.  Samuel  was  called  the  thhrd  time; 
he  again  rose  and  went  to  &eU,  who  perceiyed  that  the  Lord 
had  called  the  youth.  "  Oo  sleep,"  said  hcto  him ;  "  and  if 
thou  hear  the  Toioe  again,  thou  shalt  answer, '  Speak,  Lord, 
for  thy  seryant  heareth.'  ** 

6.  Samuel  retired  to  take  his  rest,  and  upon  hearing  himself 
called  by  name  for  the  fourth  time,  answered  in  the  words 
that  Hell  had  comnumded  him.  The  Lord  then  informed 
Samuel  of  the  heavy  judgments  which  were  soon  to  fall  npon 
the  high-priest  and  his  ftuni^f  ,  In  punishment  of  sins  that  were 
toa  ononnous  to  be  eqiiated  by  the  saeriflo^  they  offered 
He  declared  that  he  could  no  longer  bear  the  sinfhl  negligence 
of  a  father,  who,  knowing  the  disorders,  and  seeing  the  pro- 
fane excesses  of  his  two  sons,  had  contented  himself  with  a 
gentle  reprimand,  when  a  just  leal  for  the  honor  and  sanctity 
of  God's  altar  required  the  most  exemplary  severity^ 

1.  Heli  was  very  pressing  the  next  morning  to  know  what 
the  Lord  had  said.  Samuel  showed  a  great  unwOIirgness  to 
speak,  and  nothing  but  Hell's  importunity  could  have  prevaOed 


THC 

^ahlmtolmpar 

itted  to  the  dlvlii 
ipagtmisoonduG 
[I  father.  It  wai 
rer  ought  to  ha 
ijldren;  he  acikn 
j  the  punishment 

8.  Hell,  says  S 
iorchandpriva 
en  of  their 
enti,  either  tn 
dons  to  grow 
,.a  chedc^d  at  t 
)  the  ruin  of  the 
ofh  opon  thenuM 


46.  Ti 
1. 


i 


8.1 
8.  < 


THI  BOT  AMD  THV  OHILO  JRIUt. 


190 


I  him  to  impart  the  melanclioly  leorat.  Heli  humbly  lab- 
^tted  to  the  diyine  iecreet,  mmI  with  the  deepest  regret  for 
I  past  mifoondnct,  became  sensible,  that  to  fulfil  the  dotics 
fi  father,  it  waa  not  enough  to  be  singly  good,  that  he  more- 
tr  ought  to  hare  endearored  to  insUI  goodness  into  his 
en ;  he  acknowledged  his  neglect,  and  resigned  himself 
I  the  ponishment  thereof. 

8.  Hell,  says  St.  GregCKry,  has  many  Imitators  both  hi  th 

horch  and  private  fkmilles.    Pastors  rilently  behold  the  dis- 

of  their  flocks,  which  they  onght  to  correct;  and 

ents,  either  ftrom  indolence  or  false  fondness,  snlfer  those 

dons  to  grow  np  in  their  children,  which  ought  to  have 

1  checked  at  thdr  first  appearance.    Such  a  ncf^lect  tends 

I  the  ruhi  of  their  souls,  and  draws  down  Qod's  displeasure, 

oth  upon  themseWes  and  their  children. 


46.  Thb  Bot  AMD  THS  Ohild  Jbsus. 

1.  A  MONO  green  pleasant  meadows, 
ia.  All  in  a  grore  so  mild. 

Was  set  a  marble  hnage 
Of  the  Virgin  and  the  Ohild. 

2.  There  oft,  on  summer  cTenings, 

A  loTdy  boy  would  roye, 
To  play  beside  the  Image 
^Hiat  saaot{fied  the  grore. 

8.  Oft  sat  his  mother  by  Mm, 
Amoi^  the  shadows  dim, 
And  told  how  the  Lord  Jesus 
Was  once  a  child  like  him. 

4.  "And  now  firom  highest  heayen 
He  doth  look  down  each  day, 
And  sees  whate'er  thou  doest. 
And  hears  what  thou  dost  say.^' 


SOO  THB  THIRD  BXAUBB. 

6.  Uras  spake  his  tender  mother ; 
And  (m  an  erening  bright, 
When  the  red  ronnd  sun  descended 
'Mid  clonds  of  crimson  Hght, — 

6.  Again  the  boy  was  playii^ ; 
And  earnestly  said  he, 
"  Oh,  beantifnl  Lord  Jesus, 
Come  down  and  play  with  mo. 


t. 


"  I  will  find  thee  flowers  the  ftdrest^ 
And  weaye  for  thee  a  crown ; 

I  will  get  thee  ripe  red  strawberrijw 
If  thou  wilt  bat  come  down. 


8.  "  Oh,  holy,  holy  mother, 

Pat  him  down  from  off  thy  knee ; 
For  in  these  silent  meadows 
There  are  none  to  play  with  me." 

9.  Thns  spake  the  boy  so  lovely ; 

The  while  his  mother  heard ; 
Bat  on  his  prayer  she  pondered. 
And  spoke  to  him  no  word. 

■   I 

10.  That  self-same  night  she  dream'd 

A  lovely  dream  of  joy ; 
She  thonght  she  saw  yoang  Jesas, 
There  playmg  with  the  boy. 

11.  "  And  for  the  froits  and  flowers 

Which  thon  hast  brought  to  me^ 
Rich  blessings  shall  be  g^n, 
A  thonsand-fold  to  thee. 

12.  "  For  in  the  fields  of  heaven 

"-        Thon  Shalt  roam  with  me  at  will, 
And  of  bright  fraits  celestial 
Shall  have,  dear  chfld,  thy  fill." 


18  TUi 

1 

An 

14.  An 

Th 

16.  A 

II 

Tl 
16." 


n.  1 


rl  invit*^ 
holy  aac 
Eacharist.  ^ 
act  of  human 

this. 

2.  Not  on 
from  endless 
merited  by ' 
A  mother,  b< 
OUT  food  an 


THE  HOLY  SU0HABI8T. 

18  Thus  tenderly  ttnd  kmdly 

The  fair  child  Jesus  spoke ; 
And  full  of  careful  musings, 
The  anxious  mother  woke. 

14.  And  thus  it  was  accomplish'd : 
In  a  short  month  and  a  day, 
That  loyely  boy,  so  gentle, 
Upon  his  death-bed  lay. 

16.  And  thus  he  spoke  in  dying : 
"  0  mother  dear  I  I  see 
The  beantifid  child  Jesus 
A-coming  down  to  me  ;— 

16.  "  And  in  his  hand  he  bearetfa 

Bright  flowers  as  white  as  snow, 
And  red  and  juicy  strawberries ; 
Dear  mo^r,  let  me  go." 

It.  He  died — ^but  that  fond  mothw 
Her  sorrow  did  restrain ; 
For  she  knew  he  was  with  Jesus, 
And  she  asked  him  not  again. 


aoi 


w 


47.  The  Holt  En<^Bi8T. 

^E  invite  the  attention  of  our  young  readcirs  to  the  most 
holy  and  the  most  subiime  of  the  sacraments — ^the  Holy 
Eacharist.  To  die  for  one's  friend,  is  regarded  as  the  highest 
act  of  human  virtue ;  but  our  Divine  Lord  has  done  more  than 
this. 

2.  Not  only  has  he  offered  his  life  as  a  sacrifice,  to  save  us 
from  endless  misery,  from  that  just  punishment  which  we  have 
merited  by  our  sins,  but  with  a  love  more  tender  than  that  of 
A  mother,  he  has  left  us  his  own  sacred  body  and  blood  to  be 
oar  food  and  nourishment  in  our  journey  through  this  woi 


202 


THE  THIRD  BBADER. 


3.  The  Holy  Eucharist  is  then  the  sacrament  which  conti 
the  body  and  blood  of  Christ,  nnder  the  form  or  appear 
of  bread  and  wme.    The  history  of  this  sacred  institution! 
oonlained  in  a  few  words.    Jesus  had  promised  his  c 
that  he  would  give  them  his  body  and  blood  to  be  their  foi 


v^ 


UtohisApostte 

ament,  which  s 

.ins."    And  th< 

me" 

6.  Happy  monei 
the  body  and 
Jm  the  love,  tl 
that  august  mon 
iroach  his  Lord 
lie  elements  of  h 
ittder  affection  glo 
he  bent  before 
Holy  Comnmnio^ 
1.  This  holy  sac 
,68  thanksgiving 
;he  thanksgivings 
itation,  an4  to 
render  to  our  1 
imetimeB  called  i 
it  the  last  supped 
Lost  commonly  a 
Lion,  because  by 
Ud  forms  a  bon^ 
world. 
8.  This  holy  s 

When  he  first  made  this  promise,  many  of  his  followers  ▼onldl ,  x.  ^^ress 
not  believe  his  word,  and  left  him.  But  his  Apostles  believed  ■  ,  ,  t  .^^  the  1 
what  he  told  them,  though  they  did  not  know  in  what  ™^i"^f  l^koge  whom  the 
he  would  redeem  hjs  promise.  ' 

4.  As  the  time  approached  when  our  blessed  Lord  was 
about  to  leave  this  world,  he  assembled  together  his  twelve 
faithful  Apostles,  for  the  purpose  of  eating  with  them  his  last 
supper.  After  this  supper  was  over,  Jesus  taking  bread  into 
his  sacred  hands,  blessed  it,  and  immediately  it  was  changed 
into  his  own  body,  which  he  g^ve  to  his  Apostles,  saying, 
"This  is  my  body." 

6.  He  then  took  the  wme  which  was  upon  the  table,  and 
(Jpessed  it,  and  it  was  changed  into  his  blood,  which  he 


'Xi 


THE  HOLY    EUOIIABIST. 


208 


^re  to  his  Apostles,  saying,  "  This  is  my  blood  •4>f  the  New 
iment,  which  shall  be  shed  for  many  onto  the  remission 
OS."    And  then  added :  "  Do  this  for  a  conmiemoration 

fme." 

6.  Happy  moment  1  when  the  Apostles  received  for  the  first 
the  body  and  blood  of  our  Divine  Lord.    We  may  well 

;ine  the  love,  the  fervor,  the  awe  which  filled  their  hearts 
that  aogost  moment.  With  what  veneration  did  St.  Peter 
[troach  his  Lord  to  receive  from  his  sacred  hands  the  adora- 
ble elements  of  his  body  and  blood.  What  sentiments  of 
ender  affection  glowed  in  the  bosom  of  the. youthful  St.  John, 
he  bent  before  Jesus,  to  receive,  for  the  first  time,  the 
'Holy  Conmiunioo." 

7.  This  holy  sacrament  is  called  the  Eucharist,  which  sig^ 
^es  thanksgiving,  and  is  applied  to  it  in  commemoration  of 
be  thanksgiving  which  our  Saviour  offered  at  the  time  of  its 

titation,  an4  to  remmd  us  of  the  grateful  thanks  we  ought 
render  to  our  Divine  Lord  every  time  we  receive  it.  It  is 
gmetimes  called  the  Lord^s  Supper,  beicause  it  was  instituted 
at  the  last  supper  which  Jesus  took  with  his  Apostles.  It  is 
Imost  commonly  called,  at  the  present  time,  the  Hcly  Cofnmur 
nim,  because  by  it  we  are  united  so  intimately  with  Christy 
land  forms  a  bond  of  union  among  Catholics  throughout  the 
(world. 

8.  This  holy  sacrament  was  prefigured  in  the  old  law  by 
iMelchisedec,  who  ofttered  sacrifice,  using  bread  and  wine.  But 
[the  most  express  figure  was  the  killmg  and  eating  of  the  Pas- 
ichal  Lamb,  the  blood  of  which  was.  sprinkled  on  the  doors  of 

whom  the  destroying  angel  was  to  spare.  So  Christ  is 
I  called  the  Lamb  of  God,  and  his  blood  being  sprinkled  over 
I  the  earth,  has  redeemed  man  from  sm. 

9.  The  matter  of  this  sacrament  consbts  of  wheat  bread, 
and  wine  of  the  grape,  which  Christ  made  use  of,  and  without 
these  the  consecration  would  not  be  valid ;  a  small  portion  of 
water  iff  mingled  with  the  wine,  in  commemoration  of  the  water 
mingled  with  blood,  which  flowed  from  our  Divine  Saviour's' 
eido,  when  pierced  with  a  lance  after  he  had  expired  on  the 
cross.    In  the  early  ages  of  the  Church,  communion  was  given 


II- 


204 


THE  TIIIRI)   RKADBR. 


in  both  of  these  consecrated  elements ;  bnt  by  d^^rees  i 
custom  was  discontinued.  The  reception  nnder  both  foi 
was  not  deemed  necessary  by  onr  holy  mother,  the  Chn 
becaose  Glirist  being  wholly  present  under  either  form, ' 
ever  receires  under  one  kind  alone,  receires  the  true  bodyi 
blood  of  Ohrist.  Hhia  was  found  necessary,  also,  to  confoij 
certain  heretics,  who  mi^tained  that  the  consecrated  bn 
contained  the  body  of  Ohrist  without  his  blood,  and  to 
others,  who  held  that  the  reception  of  both  kinds  was  of  difi 
precept. 

10.  The  reception  of  this  holy  sacrament,  espednHy  fori 
first  time)  is  the  most  important  act  of  a  Christian's 
Children  who  have  not  receiyed  it,  should  look  forward  viti 
longing  desire  to  that  happy  period.    Eveiy  action  of  tb 
lives,  from  the  dawn  of  reason  to  the  day  of  their  first 
muhion,  should  be  made  a  preparation  for  that  sacred  evei 
They  should  never  forget  the  important  truth,  that  a 
conununion  renders  them  the  associates  of  devib,  and 
them  as  candidates  for  hell,  while  a  good  commuidon  elerat^ 
them  to  the  companionship  cf  angels,  and  seals  them  as 
diildren  of  Qod. 


48.  Thb  Houbb  of  Lobbtto. 

THE  house  of  Nazareth,  in  which  the  Blessed  Yirgin^ 
bom ;  in  which  our  Divme  Lord  passed  his  holy  childho 
and  the  years  of  his  manhood  until  the  age^'of  thirty,  becamej 
after  the  death  of  the  Blessed  Vbgin,  an  object  of  peculia 
veneration  to  the  early  Christians.    It  "was  converted  into 
chapel,  where  mass  was  celebrated  every  day,  during  the  l 
centuries  of  the  Church.    Towards  the  close  of  the  ninth  m 
tnry,  when  Palestine  was  in  the  hands  of  the  Infidels,  th 
house  was  miraculously  carried  through  the  air  into  Dahnatu 
In  the  same  miraculous  manner  it  was  finally  translated 
Loretto,  where  it  now  stands  under  the  dome  of  a  magnific 
eathedral,  which  has  been  erected  around  it. 


TIIK  HOUSE  OF  LOBBTTO. 

S.  Sweetly  low  the  laurels  bending, 

Trail  their  bright  leayes  on  the  sod, 
For  the  angels  are  descending, 

With  the  holy  house  of  God. 
O'er  the  Adriatic  gliding, 

Bathed  in  light,  most  heavenly  fair, 
Silently  the  air  diyiding, 

Angels  their  blest  burden  bear ; 
Blissfiil  dome,  most  dear  and  holy, 

Speeding  softly  o'er  the  sea, 
Laurel  brandies  bowing  lowly. 

Bid  us  bend  the  suppliant  Imee. 

8.  Weep  Balmatia  for  tiie  treasure 

Borne  from  off  thy  sunny  shore, 
For  thy  tears  in  untold  measure. 

Shall  be  ponr'd  forerermore ; 
Far  from  Nazareth  imparted, 

Lo!  our  mother's  home  was  giren, 
Weep  your  loss,  then,  brokeu'hearted. 

Of  this  holy  gift  of  heaven ; 
BUssfnl  dome  most  dear  and  holy. 

Speeding  softly  o'er  the  sea. 
Laurel  branches  bowing  lowly. 

Bid  us  bend  the  suppliant  Imee. 

4  Dome  whose  humble  walls  enfolded. 

In  the  land  of  Galilee, 
She,  the  maid  whom  Heaven  had  moulded, 

Mother  of  our  God  to  be ; 
Dome  wherein  her  infant  beauty. 

Infant  purity,  and  truth, 
Nourish'd  were  for  mystic  duty, 

Waiting  her  angelic  youth, 
Welcome,  by  the  angels  guided. 

Softly  o'er  the  summer  sea. 
Blest  the  air  so  late  divided 

By  the  house  of  Gililee. 


205 


I'h 


S06  THR  TIITKD  BBADEK. 

6.  Blest  the  ground  whereon  it  rested, 

And  forever  there  will  bloom, 
Flowers  with  light  unearthly  crested, 

Yerdore  midst  the  desert's  gloom ; 
From  these  walls  the  iitfant  maiden, 

Saintly  glory  ronnd  her  form. 
To  the  Temple,  sweetly  laden. 

Bore  her  tribute  pure  and  warm ; 
Not  of  gold,  nor  flowers  that  wither, 

She  her  yotive  offering  made. 
But  a  holiw  g^t  bore  hither, 

And  upon  the  altar  laid. 

6.  'Twas  herself,  the  "  Star  of  Morning,'' 

"LUyof  Jadea»fair, 
Sweetly  God's  dear  shrine  adorning, 

Unreserved  she  offer'd  there ; 
Here  returning  firom  the  Temple, 

With  her  holy  spouse  onoe  more. 
This  sweet  flower  so  pure  tad  simple^ 

Lived  the  humble  life  of  yore ; 
Blissful  dome  most  dear  and  holy. 

Speeding  softly  o'er  the  sea. 
Laurel  branches  bowing  lowly. 

Bid  us  bend  the  sui^liant  Imee. 

7.  Gentlest  mother,  humbly  kneeling. 

Sorrowful  witiun  thy  walls,* 
Sound  of  heaven^  iMons  stealing. 

Softly,  as  we  listm,  falls ; 
While  we  see  thy  beauty  holy, 

Beandng  with  a  light  divine. 
And  miotic  Qabriel  slowly 

Enters  where  thy  glories  shine ; 

*  At  St  Mary's  Aeademj,  imt  Boath  B«ii4,  a  ditp«l  fcr  tiM  '^OkUdno  of  Uuf  I 
ha*  bera  cnetod  In  tbe  ezMt  model  of  the  honae  of  Loratto^  botk  mtmnunr  and  lnu^ 
tuUj.  Tba  daalgns  bronght  from  Italy  hav*  been  atdetly  foUowad.  Omr  Holjr  Fatbw 
Plus  QL  baa  llberaUy  endowed  tbla  eb^wl  ia  the  Weat  with  all  tb»  Indolceooei  | 
attaaiiad  to  tba  world-ranow^rd  pllgrimaga  of  Loretta 


EXTREME  UNOnON. 


207 


Hear  that  voice  like  pnrling  waters, 
Falling  sweetly  on  the  ear, 

"  Mary,  blest  of  Israel's  daughters, 
God  the  Lord  is  with  thee  here." 

8.  "  FoU  of  grace"  'tis  he  who  led  thee, 

Smless  pure,  his  chosen  one  1 
And  his  power  shall  overspread  thee, 

And  his  will  in  thee  be  done ; 
From  thy  tender  heart's  pore  fonntaii:, 

God  shall  be  incarnate  made. 
And  the  tide  firom  sin's  dark  monntidn, 

At  thy  holy  feet  be  stay'd. 
"  Handmaid  of  the  Lord  behold  me," 

Joyful  word  falls  on  the  ear, 
Sinfid  earth  let  ^ht  enfold  thee, 

Lo  I  the  Word  Incarnate  here^I 

9.  Fairest  dome,  the  angels'  treasure. 

Earth  can  hold  no  shrine  so  blest, 
And  our  hearts  in  untold  measure, 

Pour  their  tribute  here  to  rest ; 
By  our  loving  Mother  guarded, 

Here  we  hopo  her  aid  to  g^in. 
And  our  love  at  last  rewarded. 

Heaven  shall  echo  our  refhun ; 
BlissM  dome,  most  dear  and  holy, 

Spee^Bg  i^ftly  o'er  the  sea, 
Laurel  branches  bendbg  lowly, 

Bid  us  bend  the  suppliant  knee. 


49.  ExiBEHE  XTNcrnoN. 

IHE  sacrament  of  Extreme  Uiiction  is  administered  to  sick 

persons  when  in  danger  of  death,  and  on  that  account  it 

I  called  Extreme.    It  is  uncerttvin  when  this  sacrament  was 


208 


THE  TUIKI)  UKADKB. 


institated,  but  the  Oonncil  of  Trent  has  dechtfed  that  iti 
instituted  like  the  other  sacraments,  by  our  diTine  Lord ! 
self. 

2.  That  it  was  recognized  as  a  sacrament  by  the  AposJ 
is  evident  from  the  Epistle  of  St.  James/  where  he  says  inj 
5th  chapter  of  his  epistle :  "  Is  any  man  sick  among  yon,! 
him  bring  in  the  {ffiests  of  the  Church,  and  let  them  pray  J 
hun,  anointing  him  with  oil,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord: 
the  prayer  of  faith  shall  saye  the  sick  man,  and  the  Lord  i 
raise  hun  up ;  and  if  he  be  in  sins,  they  shall  be  forgiven  1 
St.  Mark  also  relates  that  the  Apostles  anointed  with  | 
many  that  were  sick. 

3.  The  matter  of  this  sacrament  is  oil  blessed  by  a  bish^ 
The  words  used  on  the  occasion  of  administering  the^ 
ment  are  the  following : 

"By  this  holy  unction,  and  his  own  most  tender  meii 
may  the  Lord  pardon  thee  whatsoever  sins  thou  hast 
mitted  by  the  sight,  by  the  hearing,'^  and  so  of  the  otl 
senses. 

4.  No  one,  except  a  bishop  or  priest,  can  administer  tl 
sacrament.  It  may  be  received  several  times,  but  not  moj 
than  once  in  the  same  sidmess.  Persons  ought  to  prepare! 
it  by  a  good  confescion;  and  where  this  is  impossible,! 
reason  of  the  loss  of  speech,  by  a  smcere  ,act  of  contritioj 
and  detestation  of  their  sins. 

6.  The  parts  generally  anointed  are  the  eyes,  ears,  noi 
lips,  hands,  and  feet.    Ilie  effects  of  Extreme  tTnction 
first,  to  remit  all  venial  sins,  and  mortal  sins  forgotti 
second,  to  heal  the  soul  of  her  infirmity  And  weakness, 
certain  propensity  to  sin  which  often  remains  in  the  sool  i 
the  guilt  has  been  remitted ;  third,  it  ^ves  strength  and  { 
to  the  soul  to  bear  with  patience  the  pains  and  infirmities  J 
the  body;  and  lastly,  it  sometimes  restores  the  corpoij 
health,  as  has  been  attested  on  many  occasions 


"what  is  that,  mother?*' 


209 


60.  "What  ib  that,  MothebI'* 

1.  TTTHAT  is  that,  motberr^    "  The  lark,  my  child  1 

V  Y    The  moon  has  hut  Just  look'd  out  and  smiled, 
When  he  starts  from  his  hnmble,  grassy  nest, 
And  is  np  and  away  with  the  dew  on  Us  breast, 
And  a  hymn  in  his  heart,  to  yon  pure,  bright  sphere^ 
To  warble  it  ont  in  his  Maker's  ear. 
Ever,  my  child,  be  thy  mom's  first  lays 
Toned,  like  the  lark's,  to  thy  Inker's  praise." 

2.  "  What  is  that,  mother  f "    "  The  dove,  my  son  1 
And  that  low,  sweet  voice,  like  a  widow's  moan. 
Is  flowing  ont  from  her  gentle  breast, 
Constant  and  pure  by  that  lonely  nest. 

As  the  wave  is  ponr'd  from  some  crystal  nm. 
For  her  distant  dear  one's  quick  return. 
Ever,  my  son,  be  thou  like  thcrdove, 
In  friendship  as  faithful,  as  constant  in  loye." 

8.  "  What  is  that,  mother?"    "  The  eagle,  boy  I 
Proudly  careering  his  course  of  joy ; 


SIO  TUB  THUD  BKADBII. 

Firm,  on  his  own  monntoin  vigor  relying, 
Breasting  the  dark  storm,  the  red  bolt  defying, 
His  wing  on  the  wind,  and  his  eye  on  the  snn, 
He  swerves  not  a  hair,  but  bears  onward,  right  oa. 
Boy,  may  the  eagle's  flight  ever  be  thine. 
Onward  and  upward,  and  tme  to  the  line." 

4.  "  What  is  that,  mother?''    " The  swan,  my  love! 
He  is  floating  down  from  his  native  grove ; 
No  loved  one  now,  no  nestling  nigh,  ^ , 

He  is  floating  down  by  himself  to  d^e ;         ^ 
Death  darkens  his  eye,  and  nnplnmes  his  wipgs, 
Yet  his  sweetest  song  is  the  last  he  sings. 
Live  so,  my  love,  that  when  death  shall  come. 
Swan-like  and  sweet,  it  may  waft  thee  home." 


51.  Ohasitt. 

TURN  not  away  your  face  from  the  poor,  and  harden  notl 
yonr  hearts  agunst  them."  This,  my  child,  is  the  bean-l 
tifol  admonition  of  the  wise  man,  inspired  by  God  himseltl 
Of  all  the  virtues  which  religion  commends  to  the  practice  oil 
her  children,  charity  is  the  most  pleasing  to  God,  the  mosti 


▲NRODOTES  or  H0BBB8. 


211 


,» 


\' 


h!ial  to  our  fellow-creatnres.    When  the  world  ii  so  ftall 

irerty  and  wretchedness,  what  would  become  of  the  poor, 

^rich  did  not  give  them  of  their  abundance,  and  relieve 

[wants  and  sufferings  by  the  exercise  of  charity, 

Children,  especially,  ought  to  practise  charity  as  far  as 

Imeans  will  idlow.    If  that  beautiful  Tirtue  be  not  culti* 

I  in  early  youth,  when  the  mind  is  fresh  and  the  heart 

Oed  by  the  world's  rough  ways,  it  will  neyer  bear  fhiit 

)  heart  in  after  life. 

When  little  boys  and  girls  have  pocket-money  given  them, 

;  better  can  they  do  with,  at  least,  a  portion  of  it,  than 

k  it  on  some  person  who  is  in  need.    If  part  of  the 

w  spent  in  every  family  among  the  rich,  on  cakes  and 

lies,  were  only  given  each  week  to  some  deserving  object, 

[the  decent  poor  woman  in  the  picture,  it  would  provide 

]eif  and  her  hungry  little  ones  with,  at  least,  some  loaves 

Let  children  think  of  that  when  they  spend  their 

I  gjlver  pieces  on  Mrorthless  toys  and  trashy  sugarnBticks 

[are  of  no  earthly  good  to  them,  but  are,  on  the  contrary, 

tirely  injurious  to-  their  health. 

Would  not  the  blessing  which  that  poor  woman  seems 

:80  ferventily  to  those  good  little  girls,  who  have  given 

I  child  bread,  be  worth  a  thousand  times  more  to  them, 

any  thing  they  could  buy  for  themselves  to  eat  or  to 

rwith? 


52.  Anbodotbb  of  HoBsnk 

IE  method  of  taking  the  wild  horse  in  the  forests  of 

I  Sonth  America,  by  throwing  a  cord  (called  a  lasso)  over 

,  is  effected  by  men  mounted  on  domesticated  horses,  that 

been  tnuned  to  the  business,    pnce  made  a  prisoner, 

I  kept  for  a  couple  of  days  without  food  or  drink,  he  soon 

omes  tame  and  is  broken-in ;  but  if  not  closely  watched,  he 

escape  to  his  friends  of  the  forest,  and  yet  he  will  after- 

allow  himself  readily  to  be  taken.    Several  instances 

ro  been  known  of  persons  who  have  met  with  their  tamed 


S12 


THK  THIRD  ABAPES. 


ranaways  in  the  herd,  which  after  a  long  absence  hare  I 
up  to  them,  agahi  to  receive  their  caresses — and  have  [ 
become  their  willing  sla?es.    By  some  travellers  it  is  i 
that  the  wild  herds  endeavor  by  stratagem  to  sedoctl 
horses  to  Join  their  community. 

2.  We,  some  years  since,  saw  the  favorite  charger  ol 
naparte:  he  was  a  handsome  white  barb,  scarred  witnf 
wounds,  which  the  groom  stated  him  to  liave  receii 
various  battles ;  and  he  also  said  that,  since  he  had  loi 
master,  he  would  not  allow  any  stranger  to  monnt  him;. 
•nitting  only  the  groom  himself  the  honor  of  dohig  so. 


%^^-^ 


=  /-V^ 


^^v 


<^^-^ 


^^ 


always  spoke  to  tlie  ai^al  in  Frenrli,  aid  V.i  cmm 
were  readily  obeyed.  - 

8.  He  would  bid  him  to  retire,  to  lie  down,  to  rise,  and  slj 
how  he  fought  in  the  service  of  Bonaparte;  and  how  be  sh 
his  provisions  when  they  were  scarce.    After  obeyhig  the  j 
yiovLS  commands  of  his  groom,  he  would,  in  obedience  to] 
7asf.,  show  how  he  shared  his  food,  by  going  to  a  pulj 
«v  J  ter,  I'  wM>.h  there  was  a  cleanly  scraped  carrot,  and  i 
t>ie  end  oi  iMn  his  mouth,  he  would  bring  it  to  the 
la  whose  month  he  placed  the  other  end,  and  then  bit 
two,  eating  his  own  portion  only. 

4.  Occasionally  equine  attachment  exhibits  itself  in  a^ 


▲MRotK/rua  or  iiursioi. 


213 


[ted  and  creditable  as  that  of  the  hnman  mbd.    During 
'eniosalar  war  t  ho  i  rampeter  of  a  French  cavaUy  corps 
I  fine  cbar^'t  r     4$:  ml  to  him,  of  which  he  became  pas- 
\\j  foil  1,  ana  wtu^  b,  bj  gentleness  of  disposition  and 
'^ocilii/,  ^■<]nall7  winced  its  affection. 
Ml'  "toand  of  the  trumpeter's  voice,  tht  sight  of  his 
J II,  or  the  twarg  of  his  trumpet,  was  sufficient  to  throw 
mimal  into  (  state  of  excitement ;  and  he  appeared  to  be 
and  happy  only  when  nnder  the  saddle  of  his  rider, 
he  was  mimly  and  useless  to  ererybody  else ;  for  once, 
ling  removed  to  another  part  of  the  forces,  and  consigned 
joung  officer,  he  reRolntely  refused  to  perform  his  otoIu- 
I,  bolted  straight  to  the  trumpeter's  station,  and  there 
his  stand.  Jostling  alongside  his  former  master. 
This  animal,  on  behig  restored  to  the  trumpeter,  carried 
daring  several  of  the  Peninsular  campaigns,  through  many 
and  hair-breadth  escapes.    At  last  the  corps  to 
he  belonged  was  worsted,  and  in  the  confusion  of  retreat 
ipeter  was  mortally  wounded.  Dropping  from  his  horse, 
ly  was  found,  many  days  after  the  engagement,  stretched 
award,  with  the  faithful  charger  standing  beside  it. 
t  Daring  the  long  interval,  it  seems  that  he  had  never  quit- 
the  trumpeter's  side,  bnt  had  stood  sentinel  over  his  corpse, 
away  the  bhrds  of  prey,  smd  renudiymg  totally  heedless 
is  ovm  privations.  When  found,  he  was  in  a  sadly  reduced 
i^'Mon,  partly  firom  loss  of  hi«i<)od  through  wounds,  bnt  chiefly 
want  of  food,  of  which,  in  the  excess  of  his  grief,  he  could 
Ese  and  sll'^  prevaOdd  on  to  partake. 

owheshiV'  ^^^^S^  Providence  seems  to  have  implanted  in  the  horse 
yij^g  ijigSenevolent  disposition,  wkk  at  the  same  time  a  certain  awe 
lience  to  ■^''^  human  race,  yet  there  ««  instances  on  record  of  his 
0  a  DBill"^^^^  u\juries,  and  fearfully  revenging  them.    A  person 


uig^^ 


con 


,  and  1 
the 
len  bit 

fin 


'  Boston  (Mass.),  ma  in  the  habit,  whenever  he  wished  to 

th  his  horse  m  the  ttM,  of  taking  a  quantity  of  com  in  a 

are,  by  way  of  bait. 

|9.  On  callmg  to  him,  the  horse  would  come  np  and  eat  the 

D,  while  the  bridle  was  put  over  his  head.    Bat  the  owner 

deceived  the  animal  several  times,  by  calling  him  when 


H 


214 


THE  THIRD  BBADEB. 


he  had  no  corn  hi  the  mo^nre,  the  horse  at  length  begJ 
suspect  the  design ;  and  commg  up  one  day  as  usual,  on  I 
called,  looked  into  the  measure,  and  seeing  it  empty,  tn 
round,  reared  on  his  hmd  legs,  and  killed  his  master  on  the  8 

10.  The  docility  of  the  horse  is  one  of  the  most  remark 
of  his  natuni)|gifts.    Furnished  with  acute  senses,  aiide:| 
lent  memory,  high  intelligence,  and  gentle  disposition,  he  f 
learns  to  know  and  obey  his  master's  will,  and  to  perform  | 
tarn  actions  with  astonishing  accuracy  and  precision, 
range  of  his  performances,  however,  is  limited  by  his  phy{ 
conformation :  he  has  not  a  hand  to  grasp,  a  proboscis  toj 
the  minutest  object,  nor  the  advantages  of  a  light  and  i 
frame ;  if  he  had,  the  monkey,  the  dog,  and  the  eleph 
would  in  t)m  respect  be  left  far  behmd  him. 

11.  It  has  been  before  remarked,  that  the  horse  is  infej 
to  none  of  the  brute  creation  in  sagacity  and  general  inti 
gence.  In  a  state  of  nature,  he  is  cautious  and  watchful ; 
the  manner  m  which  the  wild  herds  conduct  then:  marcfi 
station  their  scouts  and  leaders,  shows  how  fully  they  obrnd 
hend  the  necessity  of  obedience  and  order.  All  their  mo| 
ments,  indeed,  seem  to  be  the  result  of  reason,  aided  bjl 
power  of  communicating  theur  ideas  far  superior  to  thatj 
most  other  animals. 

12.  The  neighings  by  which  they  communicate  terror,  alaij 
recognition,  the  discovery  of  water  and  pasture,  &c.,  are  [ 
essentially  different,  yet  instantaneously  comprehended  by  evd 
member  of  the  herd ;  nay,  the  various  movements  of  the  bo^ 
the  pawing  of  the  ground,  the  motions  of  the  ears,  and 
expressions  of  the  countenance,  seem  to  be  fully  understood] 
each  other. 

18 .  In  passhig  swampy  ground,  they  test  it  with  the  foj 
foot,  before  trusting  to  it  the  full  weight  of  their  bodia 
they  will  strike  asunder  the  melon-cactus  to  obtam  its  sncculd 
nice,  with  an  address  perfectly  wonderful ;  and  will  scoop  o| 
a  hollow  in  the  moist  sand,  in  the  expectation  of  its  filli 
with  water.  All  this  they  do  in  their  wild  state ;  and  domij 
tication,  it  seems,  instead  of  deteriorating,  tends  rather  i 
strengthen  and  develop  theur  intelligence 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLBNHEIlff. 


215 


|u  The  Arabians  try  the  speed  of  their  horses,  by  hanting 
goitridi — ^the  bird  endeavors  to  reach  the  mountains,  nin- 
j  along  the  sands  with  great  rapidity,  assisted  in  its  efforts 
[tapping  its  wings.  A  horse,  however,  possessing  the  high- 
tqatJity  of  speed,  is  enabled  to  come  np  with  it ;  when  the 

r  creature  hides  its  head  in  a  bush,  or  w^rever  it  can, 
lis  quietly  taken.    By  this  criterion  the  hunter  rates  his 

);  and  as  the  animal  evinces  his  speed  and  perseverance 
I  the  chase,  his  master  estimates  his  value.  The  Arabs 
om  their  horses  to  fatigue,  and  give  them  milk  whiwii 
bles  them  to  bear  it. 


53.  The  Battle  of  Blenhedl  * 

1.  TT  was  a  summer  evening, 

J-    Old  Rasper's  work  was  done : 
And  he  before  his  cottage-door 

Was  sitting  in  the  sun. 
And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

2.  She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 

*  Boll  somethmg  large  and  round, 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playmg  there,  bad  found ; 
.  He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 
That  was  so  large,  and  smooth  and  round 

8.  Old  Easper  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh, 
"  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,''  sud  he^ 
"  Who  fell  hi  the  great  victory. 

4.  "  I  find  them  in  the  garden,  for 
There's  many  here  about, 


S16  THK  TUIKD   READER. 

And  often  when  I  go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 
For  many  thousand  men,"  sud  he, 
Were  sldn  m  the  great  victory." 

5.  "  ^ow  tell  us  what  'twas  aU  about,'' 

Toung  Peterkin  he  cries, 
And  little  Wilhehmne  looks  up 

With  wonder-waiting  eyes ; 
"  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war,       \ 
And  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for.'' 

6.  "  It  was  the  English,"  Easper  cried, 

"  That  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  kill'd  each  other  for, 

I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  everybody  sidd,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

1   "  My  father  lived  at  Blenheun  then, 
Ton  little  stream  hard  by, 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly ;  ■ 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  heact. 

8.  "  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide, 
And  many  a  childmg  mother  then, 

And  new-bom  infant,  died; — 
But  things  like  that,  yon  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

9.  "  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight, 

After  the  field  was  won. 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun ; —    . 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  bt 
After  a  famous  victory. 


THB  AMxlUNCIATION. 

10.  "  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro*  won, 

And  onr  good  Prince  Engene.'' 
"  Why,  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  1" 

Said  Uttle  Wilhelmine. 
"  Nay— nay— -my  little  girl,"  quoth  he, 
"It  was  a  famous  victory. 

11.  "  And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 

Who  such  a  fight  did  win." 
*'  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  t" 

Quoth  little  Peterkin. 
''  Why  that  I  cannot  teU,"  said  he, 
"  But  'twas  a  famous  victory." 


217 


54.  The  AxnnniozATioir. 

WHEN  the  plenitude  of  time  was  come  that  God  had  fixed 
from  eternity  to  shower  down  his  blessings  upon  man- 
Idnd,  by  giving  them  a  Biedeemer,  the  angel  GaMel  was  first 
deputed  to  Zachary,  a  holy  priest,  whose  wife  was  Elizabeth, 
one  of  the  daoj^ters  of  Aaron.  The  heavenly  messenger 
came  to  tell  him  that  he  should  have  a  son,  whose  name 
should  be  John,  and  whose  birth  should  be  a  subject  of  joy  to 
jiiuuijinlsrael. 

i.  Six  months  after.  Almighty  God  deputed  the  same 
I  angel  to  a  virgin  whose  name  was  Ifory,  residing  in  Nazareth, 
a  city  of  Galilee.  Mary  had  been  espoused  to  a  holy  man 
called  Joseph,  a  descendant  of  the  house  of  David.  The 
divine  Providence  had  in  a  special  manner  presided  over 
tiiose  nuptials,  which  provided  the  Tlrgin  with  a  guardian 
and  protector  of  her  purity.  For  with  the  same  sentiments 
of  virtue,  and  in  the  same  dispositions  of  mind,  says  St.  Ans- 
I  tin,  both  Mary  and  Joseph  entered  into  a  mutual  engagement 
of  joining  the  marriage  state  with  a  state  of  virginity,  of 
which  the  world  had  not  seen  an  example. 

8.  Almighty  God  honored  this  alliance  with  an  issue  which 
wu  to  set  open  the  gates  of  heaven,  which  for  ages  had  been 

10 


218 


THE  THIRD   KKADKR. 


shut  against  us  by  the  crime  of  our  first  parents.  Mary  waa 
the  woman  destined  by  Almighty  God  to  crush  the  serpent's 
head,  as  it  is  written  in  the  book  of  Genesis  (chap,  iii.),  and 
it  was  to  obtain  her  consent  that  God  then  sent  his  angel  to 
Nazareth.  The  angel  found  her  alone,  as  St.  Ambrose  ob- 1 
serves,  and  respectfully  said  unto  her — "  H& !  full  of  grace 
the  Lord  is  with  thee  ;  blessed  art  thou  among  women  1" 


■I, 

■ 

J      ...      '  • 

M 

n  ■ 

•    -   ^H 

» 

1 

.^■J?!ll\x^          ,            '•                 .-                                 1 

/ 

Ha 

\ 

^i 

^^F 

^■o^ 

*  - .       "  i-^^ 

4.  The  bumble  virgin  was  disturbed  at  t^e  angePs  saluta- 
tion, and  trembled  with  fear,  lest,  as  Eve  had  been  deceived 
by  the  serpent,  she  also  might  be  misled  by  a  similar  delusion. 
She  considered  the  sense  and  import  of  his  words,  and  thereby 
gives  ns  an  admirable  example  of  discretion,  which  teaches  ns 
not  to  be  too  hasty  in  consenting  to  a  proposal  before  we 
roderstand  the  nature  of  its  obligation. 

5.  The  angel  saw  the  trouble  of  her  miod,  and  to  appease 
t,  said — "  Fear  not,  Mary ;  for  you  have  found  favor  with 
the  Lord.''  He  then  opened  the  subject  of  his  commission, 
and  told  her  that  she  should  conceive  and  bring  forth  a  son, 
and  call  his  name  Jesus  ;  that  he  should  be  great,  even  the 
Son  of  the  Most  High  ;  that  he  should  sit  upon  the  throne 


THE   ANNUNCIATION. 


2id 


of  David ;  that  he  shoald  reign  in  the  house  of  Jacob,  and 
that  of  his  kingdom  there  sho  Jd  be  no  end. 

6.  The  Yurgiu  listened  to  the  angel  with  great  attention ; 
she  heard  the  wonderfal  things  he  promised,  but  desired  to 
know  how  it  could  possibly  be  done,  because  she  was  a  virgin. 
It  wasi  not  an  idle  curiosity,  but  a  mark  of  her  submission  to 
the  divine  will ;  nor  was  it  a  want  of  faith,  but  an  intimation 
of  the  chaste  purpose  of  her  mind,  which  induced  her  to  ask 
the  angel  that  qu^tion. 

1.  The  angel,  in  reply,  assured  her  that  no  concurrence  of 
man  was  requisite  for  what  the  sole  power  of  the  Most  High, 
with  her  consent,  would  operate  within  her ;  that  by  the  in- 
effabld^  virtue  of  the  Holy  Ghost  she  should  conceive,  bear  a 
son,  and  still  remain  a  pure  virgin.  It  is  what  the  prophet 
Isaiah  (chap,  vii.)  had  expressly  foretold.  But  to  convince 
the  Yirgin  that  nothing  was  impossible  to  God,  tho  angel, 
moreover,  told  her  what  had  happened  to  her  cousin  Eliza- 
beth in  an  advanced  age,  who,  notwithstanding  the  many 
years  she  had  l)een  reputed  barren,  had  miraculously  cou' 
ceived,  and  was  six  months  gone  with  child. 

8.  The  Yirgin  having  thus  received  the  information  she 
desired,  and  being  told  the  manner  in  which  the  mystery  was 
to  be  wrought  within  her,  gave  her  consent.  In  terms  the 
most  humble  and  submissive,  terms  that  expressed  the  holy 
disposition  of  her  heart,  she  said — "  Behold  the  handmaid  of 
the  Lord :  let  it  be  done  to  me  according  to  thy  word." 

9.  The  angel  having  thus  happily  completed  his  commis- 
sion, returned  to  heaven,  and  the  wonderful  mystery  of  the 
Incarnation  took  place  that  instant.  For  Mary  had  no 
sooner  given  her  consent,  than  the  Son  of  God,  the  second 
Person  of  the  most  adorable  Trinity,  by  an  invisible  and  in- 
explicable operation  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  took  fle^h  and  became 
man  in  her  womb,  without  the  least  detriment  to  her  vii^inal 
ntegrity.  That  was  the  happy  moment  in  which  the  work  of 
man's  redemption  was  begun  ;  that  was  the  moment  when  an 
incarnate  God  unlocked  the  source  of  those  plentiful  graces 
which  were  to  flow  for  the  salvation  of  mankind,  to  wash  our 
Honls  from  sin,  and  to  sanctify  them  for  eternal  life. 


820 


THB  THIRD  BKADE&. 


55.  St.  Fbugitas  and  heb  Sons. 

THEBE  lived  at  Borne,  in  the  reign  of  Marcus  Anrelios, « 
noble  lady  called  FeUcitas.  She  was  a  widow,  and  had 
tCTen  sons.  On  her  husband's  death,  she  took  a  vow  of  chas- 
tity, and  gave  herself  up  to  a  life  of  prayer,  fasting,  and  good 
works.  One  of  her  principal  occupations  was  the  education 
of  her  sevi^n  sons,  whom  she  loved  very  dearly.  Felicitas' 
love  for  her  sons  was  not  merely  such  as  all  women  feel  for 
their  children. 

2.  She  remembered  that  they  were  not  her  children  only, 
but  that  they  were  the  children  of  God,  who  had  lent  them  to 
her,  and  who  would  one  day  ask  her  account  of  them.  She 
did  not  wish  to  see  them  great  in  this  world,  but  wished  to 
lay  up  in  store  for  them  the  inestimable  riches  of  eternal  glory 
in  the  next. 

8.  She  therefore  traf'^  them  firom  their  infancy  in  all  holy 
and  pious  practices  suited  to  their  age,  and  she  offered  them 
up  to  Jesus  to  live  and  die  in  his  service,  in  whatever  way  it 
might  be  his  will  to  make  use  of  them.  Our  Lord  acc^ted 
the  offering,  and  gave  her  and  them  the  high  honor  of  suffer- 
ing martyrdom  for  his  sake. 

4.  FeUcitas  was  so  good  and  holy  that  the  women  of  her 
own  rank  thought  very  highly  of  whatever  she  said  or  did, 
and  many  of  them  who  were  pagans  were  converted  by  her 
example  and  influence.  This  displeased  the  heathen  priests, 
and  they  complained  to  the  emperor,  and  persuaded  him  that 
the  gods  were  very  angry,  and  would  not  be  pacified  till  Feli- 
citas and  her  chilcbren  would  offer  sacrifice  to  them. 

5.  She  and  her  sons  were  accordingly  made  prisoners,  and 
taken  before  Publius,  the  prefect  of  the  city.  Pnblius  was 
unvrilling  to  use  violence  with  a  lady  of  such  high  rank  and 
character  as  Felicitas  ;  so  he  first  took  her  aside,  and  tried 
gently  to  persuade  her  to  sacrifice  to  the  gods.  But  Felicitas 
answered — "  Do  not  hope,  O  Publius  I  to  win  me  with  fair 
words,  or  to  terrify  me  with  threats  ;  for  I  have  within  m^^ 
the  spirit  of  God,  who  will  not  let  me  be  overcome  by  Satan ; 


uid  therefor 
the  servant  < 
6.  Pnbliui 
he  would  mo 
therefore  sa 
yon  are  so 
dren  live,  b 
cruel  tormei 
t.  "My  < 
lasting  deat 
now,  since  i 
irill  Uve  wit 
Publius  disi 
consider  co< 
tnres  she  w( 
when  she  dii 
8.  The  n 
he  sent  for 
lum,  he  tui 
mother,  he 
who  are  noi 
birth,  and  s 
highest  hon 
9.  But  ] 
advice  is  i 
dren,  jhe  s 
expects  yoi 
of  your  80 
the  love  ol 
peratedPt 
that  ihis^ 
commando 
and  head. 
10.  The 
rius,  the  el 
to  adore 
brava  anc 


-mt.^m  I 


BT.  FEUOTTAB  AND  HBB  SONS. 


221 


wid  therefore  I  am  sore  I  shall  be  too  hard  for  yon,  who  are 
the  servant  of  Satan.''  , 

6.  Pnblins  seeing  that  she  had  no  fear  for  herself,  thought 
be  would  move  her  bf  speaking  to  her  of  her  children,  and  he 
therefore  said  to  her — "  IJnhiippj  woman  1  is  it  possible  that 
jon  are  so  tired  of  life  that  yon  will  not  even  le  u  yonr  chil- 
dren live,  bnt  will  force  me  to  destroy  ihem  by  bitter  and 
crael  torments  7" 

1.  "My  children,"  replied  Felicitas,  "would  die  an  ever- 
lasting  death  if  they  were  to  sacrifice  to  yonr  gods.  But 
now,  since  they  acknowledge  and  worship  Jesus  Christ,  they 
will  live  with  him  forever."  After  making  this  first  attempt, 
Publius  dismissed  her,  thinking  it  would  be  better  to  let  her 
consider  coolly  and  quietly  what  he  had  said,  and  what  tor- 
tures she  was  bringing  on  herself  and  her  children,  hoping  that 
when  she  did  so,  she  would  come  to  a  better  mind. 

8.  The  next  day,  as  he  was  sitting  in  the  temple  of  Mars, 
he  sent  for  Felicitas  and  her  sons.  When  they  came  before 
him,  he  turned  to  her,  and  appealing  to  her  feelings  as  a 
mother,  he  said — "  O  Felicitas  I  take  pity  on  your  children, 
who  are  now  in  the  prime  of  youth,  and  who  are  of  such  noble 
birth,  and  are  so  good  and  clever  that  they  may  look  to  the 
highest  honors  of  the  state." 

9.  But  Felicitas  answered — "Tour  pity  is  cruel,  and  your 
advice  is  impious  and  deceitful."  Then,  turning  to  her  chil- 
dren,  Ahe  said — "  My  sons,  look  up  to  heaven,  where  C^urist 
expects  yon  with  all  his  saints  1  Fight  manfully  for  the  good 
of  your  souls,  and  show  yourselves  faithful  and  constant  in 
the  love  of  the  true  God,  Christ  Jesus."  These  words  exas- 
perated Publius,  who  looked  upon  it  as  an  intolerable  affront 
that  this  woman  should  defy  1dm  to  his  very  face,  and  so  he 
commanded  that  she  should  be  cruelly  beaten  abont  the  face 
and  head. 

10.  Then  he  turned  to  her  sons,  and  be^nning  with  Janua< 
rius,  the  eldest,  he  tried  to  induce  him,  by  promises  and  threats, 
to  adore  the  gods.  But  the  boy  was  not  unworthy  of  hii 
brava  and  suntly  mother,  and  he  answered — "  Yon  wish  to 
persuade  me  to  do  a  foolish  thmg,  contrary  to  all  reason ;  but 


:3s«=»- 


223 


THB  THIBD  BKADER. 


I  tnut  in  my  Lord  Jesus  Christ  that  he  will  preserve  me  from 
so  great  an  impiety."  On  hearing  these  words,  Publius  o^ 
dered  that  he  should  be  strippe-'  and  very  severely  Kconrged; 
after  which  he  was  thrown  into  pruion. 

11.  All  the  other  brothers  were  brought  up  in  turn,  and 
every  art  was  used  to  conquer  them,  and  induce  them  to  obey 
the  emperor.  But  it  was  all  to'^no  purpose ;  for  they  were 
supported  and  guided  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  they  all  made 
Publius  the  same  answer,  though  in  different  words,  as  Jana* 
arius  had  done.  They  were  therefore  scourged  so  severely 
that  their  whole  bodies  were  a  mass  of  wounds,  and  in  ihis 
state  they  were  thrown  into  prison,  till  the  emperor's  ftirther 
pleasure  should  be  known. 

12.  During  all  the  time  that  her  sons  were  being  thus  to^ 
tured,  Felicitas  was  forced  to  stand  by  and  witness  their  suf- 
ferings. This  holy  mother  remained  firm  and  unmoved,  whUe 
she  looked  on  the  torments  of  hor  children.  She  did  not  shed 
a  tear  as  the  noisci  of  the  blown  resounded  in  her  ears  ;  she 
did  not  shrink  at  the  sight  of  their  streaming  blood,  their 
quivering  flesh,  and  their  involuntary  writhings  of  agony. 

13.  The  only  words  she  spoke  were  to  exhort  them  to  stand 
firm,  and  to  inflame  them  with  love  for  Jesus.  It  seems 
strange  how  a  mother  could  act  in  this  way.  It  was  not  be< 
cause  she  did  not  love  her  children,  or  because  she  had  not 
the  natural  feelings  of  a  mother ;  for,  on  the  contrary,  every 
torture  they  endured  pierced  her  to  her  very  heart,  and  gave 
her  even  more  pain  than  it  did  them.  But  it  was  because  the 
supernatural  character  of  her  love  for  them  gave  her  strength 
to  conquer  the  weakness  of  a  mother's  natural  feelings. 

14.  Looking  on  them  with  the  eyes  of  faith,  she  saw  in 
their  temporal  death  only  their  gain  of  eternal  life ;  in  their 
present  wounds,  the  jewels  of  their  future  crown ;  and  in  the 
severity  of  their  torments,  the  greater  blessedness  prepared 
for  them  in  glory.  She  would  have  feared  to  leave  them 
behind  her  on  earth,  lest  any  one  of  them  should  fall  short 
of  heaven,  and  therefore  she  rejoiced  as  much  in  the  death  of 
her  sons  as  other  mothers  weep  when  theirs  are  taken  from 
them. 


15.  Marcu 
feel  the  least 
all  her  sons  s 
eyes.    The  t 
ing  death,  b 
was  first  toi 
with  lead,  tO 
broken  with 
bodies  being 
16.  A  mi 
thrown  fron 
were  behead 
would  have 
Christians  d 
17.  The  ( 
cold  dungeo 
her  patience 
row,  she  wc 
firom  solitu 
than  ever  ( 
of  her  chil( 
might  be  is 
18.  She 
Jesus;  for 
in  it  couh 
wept  had  i 
as  many  b 
bad  childi 
with  them 
them,  and 
19.  At 
her  conse 
her  to  be 
martyrdc 
ceasing  t 
of  the  C 
mother  ^ 
tas  love< 


■•■M^itrt-*'! 


■  ■iiynnWiiKiii 


■' illil*i»>tl|^»iiii»lliii»HWI>i»ii<i»ii    ■   ■"* 


O,—* 


ST.   rETilOITAS  AND  HBR  SONS. 


228 


15.  Marcus  Aurelias  was  so  hardened  that  he  could  not 
feel  the  least  compassion  for  Felicitas,  and  he  ordered  that 
all  her  sons  should  be  put  to  death  in  Tarious  ways  before  her 
eyes.  The  three  e^'^est  underwent  a  very  horrible  and  linger- 
ing death,  beinf  <«.  yly  beaten  tUl  they  exphred.  Januarius 
was  first  torn  w^bii  whips,  and  then  with  tUck  cords,  loaded 
with  lead,  till  he  died  ;  and  Felix  and  Philip  were  bruised  an 
broken  with  cudgels  tUl,  every  bone  being  fractured,  and  theu 
bodies  being  reduced  to. a  shapeless  mass,  they  at  last  expired. 
•  16.  A  milder  fate  awaited  the  others ;  for  Silvanas  was 
thrown  from  a  rock,  while  Alexander,  Yitalis,  and  Martialis 
were  beheaded.  To  have  put  their  bereaved  mother  to  death 
would  have  been  a  deed  of  mercy ;  but  the  persecutors  of  the 
Christians  did  not  know  what  mercy  was. 

1*7.  The  emperor  ordered  her  to  be  thrown  into  a  dark  and 
cold  dungeon,  where  she  was  kept  four  months,  in  hopes  that 
her  patience  being  worn  out,  and  her  spirit  broken  by  her  sor- 
row, she  would  at  last  be  willing  to  do  any  thing  to  escape 
from  solitude  and  torture.  But  there  was  now  less  chance 
than  ever  of  St.  Felicitas  giving  up  her  religion,  for  the  loss 
of  her  children  had  only  strengthened  her  to  bear  whatever 
might  be  inflicted  on  her. 

18.  She  had  now  no  temptation  to  save  her  life  by  denying 
Tesus ;  for  this  world  was  become  a  blank  to  her,  and  nothing 
in  it  could  give  her  the  least  happiness.  She'  would  have 
wept  had  not  her  sons  died  for  Christ ;  but  now  that  she  had 
as  many  bright  and  glorious  saints  in  heaven  as  she  had  once 
had  chUdren  on  earth,  her  only  hope  and  longini;  was  to  be 
with  them  in  the  presence  of  Him  to  whom  she  had  offered 
them,  and  for  the  love  of  whom  they  had  laid  down  their  lives 

19.  At  last,  when  it  was  plain  that  she  would  never  give 
her  consent  to  adore  the  heathen  gOds,  the  emperor  ordered 
her  to  be  beheaded.  Thus  did  this  blessed  saint  suffer  eight 
martyrdoms — being  martyred  in  each  of  her  children,  and 
ceasing  to  suffer  only  when  she  ceased  to  breathe.  A  father 
of  the  Church,  in  speakmg  of  her,  says — "  She  is  not  a  true 
mother  who  knows  not  how  to  love  her  children  as  St.  Felici* 
tas  loved  hers.'' 


S24 


TUB  THIRD  BBADEB. 


66.  Immobtautt. 

I  LINGERED  several  weeks  around  the  grave  of  my  mother, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  where  she  had  lived.  It  was  the 
place  where  I  had  passed  my  own  childhood  and  youth.  It 
wm  the  scene  of  those  early  associations  which  become  the 
dearer  to  ns  as  we  leave  them  the  farther  behind.  I  stood 
where  I  had  sported  in  the  freedom  of  early  childhood ;  bat  I 
stood  alone,  for  no  one  was  there  with  whom  I  oonld  spoukof 
its  frolics.  One  feels  singnlarly  desolate  when  he  seoi  only 
strange  faces,  and  hears  only  strange  voices  in  what  was  the 
home  of  his  early  life. 

2.  I  returned  to  the  village  where  I  redded  when  I  first 
introduced  myself  to  my  readers.  But  what  was  that  spot  to 
me  now  ?  Nature  had  done  much  for  it,  bet  nature  herself  is 
very  much  what  we  make  her.  There  mui£  be  beauty  in  our 
souls,  or  we  shall  see  no  loveUnesn  in  her  face ;  and  beauty 
had  died  out  of  my  soul.  She  who  might  have  recalled  it  to 
life,  and  thrown  its  hues  over  all  the  world,  was — but  of  that 
I  will  not  speak. 

8.  It  was  now  that  I  reaUy  needed  the  hope  of  immortality. 
The  world  was  to  me  one  vast  desert,  and  life  was  without 
end  or  um.  The  hope  of  immortaUly  I  We  want  it  when 
earth  has  lost  its  gloss  of  novelty;  when  our  hopes  have 
been  blasted,  our  affections  withered,  and  the  shortness  of  life 
and  the  vanity  of  all  human  pursuits,  have  come  home  to  us, 
and  made  us  exclaim,  "Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity:" 
we  want  then  the  hope  of  immortality  to  give  to  life  an  end, 
anaim. 

4.  We  all  of  ns  at  times  feel  this  want.  Tho  infidel  feels 
it  in  early  life.  He  learns  all  too  soon,  what  to  him  is  a 
withering  fact,  that  man  does  not  complete  his  destiny  on 
arth.  Man  never  completes  any  thing  here.  What  then 
shall  he  do  if  there  be  no  hereafter?  With  what  courage  can 
I  betake  myself  to  my  task  ?  I  may  begin ;  but  the  grave 
lies  between  me  and  the  completion.  Death  will  come  to  in* 
terrupt  my  work,  and  compel  me  to  leave  it  unfinished. 


6.  This  is  n 
to  be.    I  coul 
be  no  more, 
tiny ;  but  to  < 
tiny  is  but  bej 
ft8a"Kingol 
6.  The  hop 
iteps  in  to  sai 
the  hope  to  b< 
the  finished  pi 
lug  easel;  the 
and  the  indpi 
begin;  thoul 


Went 

TJnmi 

Shoo 

TIpt 

The  I 

Bear 

And 

Wal 

Mov 

Swu 

His 

Ben 

Onl 

Cm 

Fol 

Fal 

Fel 


MHiMamiiHlilin  rtiiiii<iilii  ■ 


pii^  mm  „mmimitm0t 


THR  WIDOW  or  MAIN. 


225 


5.  This  is  more  temble  to  me  than  the  thoaght  of  ceasing 
to  be.  I  cotild  almost  (at  least  I  think  I  could)  consent  to 
be  no  more,  after  I  had  finished  my  work,  achieyed  my  des- 
tiny ;  but  to  die  before  my  work  is  completed,  while  that  des- 
tiny is  bat  begnn, — ^this  is  the  death  which  comes  to  me  Indeed 
as  a  "  King  of  Terrors."     . 

6.  The  hope  of  another  life  to  be  the  completion  of  this, 
iteps  in  to  save  us  from  this  death,  to  giwe  us  the  courage  and 
the  hope  to  begin.  The  rough  sketch  shall  hereafter  become 
the  finished  picture ;  the  artist  shall  gire  it  the  last  touch  at 
his  easel ;  the  science  we  had  Just  begun,  shall  be  completed, 
and  the  incipient  destiny  shall  be  achieved.  F«ar  not  then  to 
begin ;  thou  hast  eternity  before  thee  in  which  to  end. 


67.  Thb  Widow  of  Naiw. 

9rilWAS  now  high  noon. 

i-  The  dull,  low  murmur  of  a  funeral 

Went  through  the  dty — ^the  sad  sound  of  feet 

Unmiz'd  with  Toices— «nd  the  sentinel 

Shook  off  his  slumber,  and  gazed  earnestly 

Up  the  wide  streets  along  whose  paved  way 

The  silent  throng  crept  slowly.    They  came  on, 

Bearing  a  body  heavily  on  its  bier. 

And  by  the  crowd  that  in  the  burning  sun, 

Walk'd  with  forgetful  sadness,  'twas  of  one 

Moum'd  with  uncommon  sorrow.    The  broad  gate 

Swung  on  its  hinges,  and  the  Roman  bent 

His  spear-point  downwards  as  the  bearers  pass'd, 

Bending  beneath  their  burden.    There  was  one — 

Only  one  mourner.    Close  behind  the  bier. 

Crumpling  the  pall  up  in  her  wither'd  hands. 

Followed  an  aged  woman.    Her  short  steps 

Falter'd  with  weakness,  and  a  broken  moan 

Fell  fh>m  her  lips,  thicken'd  convulsively, 

io» 


229  TIIK  TIIIUD   KKADEK. 

As  her  heart  bled  afresh.    The  pitying  crowd 
i'ollow'd  apart,  but  no  one  spolce  to  her. 
She  had  no  kinsmen.    She  had  lived  alone— 


Ji 


A  widow  with  one  son.    He  was  her  all — 
The  only  tie  she  had  in  the  wide  world— 
And  he  was  dead.    They  could  not  comfort  her. 
***** 
Forth  from  the  city-gate  the  pitymg  crowd 
FoUow'd  the  stricken  mourner.    They  came  near 
The  place  of  burial,  and,  with  straining  hands, 


-~S!»5«S£rcr3 


mmm 


MONUMENT  TO    A   MOTUJCR'S   OUAVK. 


227 


Closer  upon  her  breast  khe  clasp'd  tho  pall, 
And  with  a  gasping  sob,  quiclc  as  a  child's, 
Anl  an  inquiring  wildness  flashhig  throagh 
Tho  thin  gray  lashes  of  her  foTer'd  eyes, 
She  came  where  Jesas  stood  beside  the  way. 
He  look'd  upon  her,  and  his  heart  was  moved. 
"  Weep  not  1"  he  said ;  and  as  they  stay'd  the  bier, 
And  at  his  bidding  laid  it  at  his  feet, 
He  gently  drew  the  pall  ft-om  out  her  grasp, 
And  laid  it  back  in  silence  from  the  dead. 
With  troubled  wonder  the  mute  throng  drew  near. 
And  gazed  on  his  calm  looks.    A  minute's  space 
He  stood  and  pray'd.    Then,  taking  the  cold  hand, 
He  said  "  Arise  1"    And  instantly  the  breast 
Heaved  in  its  cerements,  and  a  sudden  flush 
Ban  through  the  lines  of  the  divided  lips. 
And  with  a  murmur  of  his  mother's  name, 
He  trembled  and  sat  upright  in  his  shroud. 
And,  while  the  mourner  hung  upon  his  neck, 
Jesus  went  calmly  on  his  way  to  Nain. 


58.  MONTTMBNT  TO  A  MoTHEB'b  GbAYB.  > 

I  FOLLOWED  hito  a  burymg^ound  in  the  suburbs  of 
Philadelphia,  a  small  train  of  persons,  not  more  than  a 
dozen,  who  had  come  to  bury  one  of  their  acquaintance.  The 
clergyman  in  attendance,  was  leading  a  little  boy  by  the  hand, 
who  seemed  to  be  the  only  relative  of  the  deceased. 

2.  I  gathered  with  them  around  the  grave ;  and  when  the 
plain  coffin  was  lowered  down,  the  child  burst  forth  in  uncon- 
troUable  grief.  The  little  boy  had  no  one  left  to  whom  he 
could  look  for  affection,  or  who  could  address  hun  in  tones  of 
parental  kindness ;  the  last  of  his  kinsfolk  was  in  the  grave, 
and  he  was  alone. 

3.  When  the  clamorous  grief  of  the  child  had  a  little  sub- 
sided, the  olergyman  addressed  us  with  the  customary  ezhor* 


228 


THE  THIRD    READER. 


tation  to  accept  the  monition,  and  be  prepared,  and  in  turning 
to  the  child,  he  added,  "  She  is  not  to  remain  in  the  grave 
forever ;  as  sure  as  the  grass,  which  is  now  chilled  with  the 
frost  of  the  season,  shall  spring  to  greenness  and  life  in  a  few 
months,  so  trae  shall  yonr  mother  rise  from  that  grave  to 
another  life :  a  life  of  happiness,  I  hope.'' 

4.  The  attendants  then  shovelled  in  the  earth  npon  tbe 
coffin,  and  some  one  took  little  William,  the  child,  by  the  hand, 
and  led  him  forth  fh>m  the  lonely  tenement  of  his  mother. 

6.  Late  in  the  ensmng  spring,  I  was  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  same  bnrying^ound,  and  seeing  the  gate  open,  I  walked 
among  the  graves  for  some  time,  reading  the  names  of  the 
dead ;  when,  recollecting  that  I  was  near  the  grave  of  the 
poor  widow,  bnried  the  previous  automn,  I  turned  to  see  what 
had  been  done  to  preserve  the  memory  of  one  so  utterly  des- 
titute of  earthly  friends. 

6.  To  my  surprise,  I  found  the  most  desirable  of  mementoes 
for  a  mother's  sepulchre :  little  WiUiam  was  sitting  near  the 
head  of  the  now  sunken  grave,  looking  intently  at  some  green 
shoots  that  had  come  forth  with  the  warmth  of  spring  from 
the  soil  that  had  covered  his  mother's  coffin. 

7.  William  started  at  my  approach,  and  would  have  left 
the  place.  It  was  long  before  I  could  induce  him  to  tarry; 
and  indeed,  I  could  not  win  his  confidence  until  I  told  hhn 
that  I  was  present  when  they  buried  his  mother,  and  had 
marked  his  tears  at  the  time. 

8.  "  Then  yon  heard  the  priest  say  my  mother  would  come 
out  of  this  grave  1"  said  William. 

"I  did." 

"  It  is  true :  is  it  not?"  asked  he,  in  a  tone  of  confidence. 
"  I  most  firmly  believe  it,"  said  I. 
"  Believe  it  I"  said  the  child,  "  believe  it  I    I  thought  yea 
knew  it.    I  know  it." 
"  How  do  you  know  it,  my  dear?" 

9.  "  The  priest  said,  that  as  true  as  the  grass  g^w  up,  and 
the  flowers  bloomed  in  spring,  so  true  would  mother  rise.  I 
came  a  few  days  afterward  and  planted  flowernseeds  on  the 
grave.  The  grass  came  green  in  the  burying-ground  long  ago; 


C-v 


MONUMENT  TO  A  MOTHKB  S  GBAVE. 


229 


and  I  watched  every  day  for  the  flowers,  and  tonlay  they  came 
up  too.  See  them  breakmg  through  the  ground  1  By-and-by 
mother  will  come  again." 

10.  A  smile  of  exulting  hope  played  upon  the  features  of 
the  boy,  and  I  felt  pamed  at  disturbing  the  faith  and  confi- 
dence with  which  he  was  animated.  "  But,  my  little  child," 
Baid  I,  "  it  is  not  here  that  your  mother  wiU  rise." 

"Yes,  here,"  said  he  with  emphasis:  "here  they  placed 
her,  and  here  I  have  come  ever  since  the  first  blade  of  grass 
was  seen  this  year." 

11.  I  looked  around,  and  saw  the  tiny  foot  of  the  child  had 
trod  out  the  herbage  at  the  grave-side :  so  constant  had  been 
his  attendance.  What  a  faithful  watch-keeper  1  what  mother 
would  desire  a  richer  monument  than  the  form  of  her  son 
bendmg  in  tearful  but  hoping  trust  over  her  grave? 

12.  "But,  William,"  said  I,  "it  is  in  another  world  that 
she  will  rise ;"  and  I  attempted  to  explain  to  him  the  nature 
of  that  promise  which  he  had  mistaken.  The  child  was  con- 
fused, and  he  appeared  nether  pleased  nor  satisfied. 

"U  mother  is  not  coming  back  to  me,  if  she  is  not  to  come 
op  here,  what  shall  I  do  ?    I  cannot  stay  without  her." 

"  Yon  shall  go  to  her,"  said  I,  adopting  the  language  of 
the  Scripture,  "  you  shall  go  to  her,  but  she  shall  not  come 
again  to  you." 

13.  "Let  me  go  then,"  said  William:  "let  me  go  that  I 
may  rise  with  mother." 

"  WiUiam,"  said  I,  pointmg  down  to  the  plants  just  break- 
uig  through  the  ground,  "  the  seed  which  was  sown  there, 
would  not  have  come  up,  if  it  had  not  been  ripe :  so  you  must 
wait  till  your  appointed  tune ;  until  your  end  cometh." 

"Then  I  shall  see  her  I" 

"  I  surely  hope  so." 

"I  will  wait,  then,"  said  the  child;  "but  I  thought  1 
should  see  her  soon :  I  thought  I  should  meet  her  here." 

14.  In  a  month  William  ceased  to  wait.  He  died,  and 
they  opened  his  mother's  grave,  and  placed  his  little  coffin  on 
hers.  It  was  the  only  wish  the  child  expressed  when  dying. 
Better  teachers  than  I  had  instructed  huu  in  the  way  to  meet 


230 


THE  TUIBD  BEADEB. 


his  mother ;  and  young  as  the  little  snfferer  was,  he  had  learned 
that  all  the  labors  and  hopes  of  happiness,  short  of  heaven,  are 
profitless  and  vain. 


word  that  is  c( 
us."    And  lea'v 


.//'fr 


^IW 


'C:- 


#v. 


59.  Adobatton  of  thb  Shbphebds. 

THERE  were  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bethlehem  some 
shepherds  watching  their  flocks  by  night.  They  saw  the 
radiance  visible  in  the  heavens ;  they  heard  the  angelic  voices 
and  were  struck  with  awe.  Immediately  one  of  the  blessed 
spirits  who  were  singing  glory  to  God  and  peace  to  men,  de- 
tached himself  from  the  heavenly  host,  and  coming  to  the 
shepherds,  said:  "  Fear  not,  for  behold  I  brmg  you  tidings  of 
great  joy,  that  shall  be  to  all  the  people.  This  day  is  bom  to 
you  a  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord,  in  the  city  of  David. 
And  this  shall  be  a  sign  unto  you :  you  shall  find  the  infant 
wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes,  and  laid  in  a  manger."  The 
angel  spoke  and  then  vanished,  like  a  stray  beam  of  light. 

2.  And  the  shepherds,  stunned  and  stupefied,  said  one  to 
ftnother :  "  Let  us  go  over  to  Bethlehem ;  and  let  us  see  this 


ADOBATION   OF  THE  8HKPUEBDS. 


231 


word  that  is  come  to  pass,  wluch  the  Lord  hath  shown  to 
113."  And  leaving  their  flocks  they  went,  and  they  saw  the 
holy  old  man  St.  Joseph,  the  Yirgin  Mary,  and  the  infant 
Go^,  wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes,  and  laid  in  a  manger. 
And  they  adored  him.  And  they  went  away  joyfully,  telling 
I  everywhere  the  wonders  they  had  seen. 

3.  Now,  children,  was  not  this  birth  of  the  Son  of  God 

I  great  miracle?  It  seems  as  though  the  whole  earth  should 
have  been  in  motion  to  receive  him :  yet  he  is  bom  by  night 
jQ  a  poor  stable !  And  by  what  a  sign  was  he  recognized — 
'Tou  T^Ul  find  the  child  wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes  and 
lud  m  a  Lmnger  1"  What  then  I  Gould  he  not  be  bom  in  a 
palace,  amid  kingly  splendor,  he  the  Creator  and  Master  of 
ill  things?  He  could,  if  such  had  been  his  will,  but  it  was 
Dot:  that  sign  would  not  have  marked  hun  out  sufficiently  as 

I  onr  Saviour. 

4.  Remember,  children,  what  I  have  told  yon  he  came  ^o 
I  do;  he  came  to  instract  and  save  us.    To  instruct  us,  he 

bad  to  heal  a  triple  wound  in  our  soul — ^pride,  avarice,  and 

lore  of  pleasure :  this  he  did  by  presenting  himself  to  us  under 

I  the  sign  of  humility,  poverty,  and  suffering.    To  save  us,  he 

I  bad  to  expiate  our  faidts  by  his  pains ;  hence  it  was  that  he 

I  was  bora  in  a  stable.    In  beginnfaig  to  live,  he  begins  to  do 

two  great  things,  which  we  shall  see  him  follow  up  in  after 

years  by  preaching  and  sacrifice ;  from  the  crib  he  is  onr 

Teacher  and  our  Saviour.    Nevertheless,  we  cannot  mistake 

him  in  the  humiliation  of  his  birth. 

6.  That  little  child  who  cannot  yet  speak,  is  the  very  Son 
of  God,  his  eternal  Word.  Hear  the  evangelist  St.  John : 
"In  the  beginnmg,  before  all  beginning,  without  beginning, 
was  the  Word,  and  the  Word  was  with  God,  and  the  Word 
was  God.  All  things  were  made  by  him,  and  without  him  was 
made  nothing  that  was  made.  In  him  was  life,  and  the  life  was 
the  light  of  men.  That  was  the  true  light  which  enlighteneth 
every  man  that  cometh  mto  this  world.  And  the  Word  was 
made  flesh,  and  dwelt  among  us ;  and  we  saw  his  glory,  the 
glory  as  of  the  only-'oegotten  of  the  Father,  full  of  grace  and 
truth." 


-.'■Tim 


•53S3C' 


i*^ 


283 


THB  THIBD   BEADBB. 


6.  The  prophets  sang :  "  Great  is  the  Lord,  and  worthy  of 
all  praise !"  We  shig  around  his  manger :  Small  is  the  Lord, 
a  little  helpless  child,  and  worthy  of  all  love.  O  child,  the 
fairest  of  aU  children,  where  do  I  behold  thee?  what  destitaJ 
tion  I  what  nakedness  i  what  sufferings  I  He  is  laid  on  straw; 
the  night  is  cold  and  firosty:  thns  does  loye  suffer!  Ho 
weeps,  he  ntters  plamtiye  cries :  thus  does  love  speak  I  Who  I 
woidd  not  love  a  God  who  has  so  loved  ns? 

t.  Mary  and  Joseph  were  amazed  at  all  these  things, 
they  gathered  and  treaiiiared  them  in  their  hearts.    Hac 
Mary  I  happy  Joseph  1    Ton  it  was  that  first  beheld 
Saviour  of  the  world  I    It  was  your  hands  that  received 
as  he  came  from  the  maternal  womb,  wrapped  him  in  swa 
dling-clothes,  and  laid  him  in  the  manger.   Mary,  it  was  thoQJ 
that  nursed  him  1    Adore  him  as  thou  performest  that  sweet 
duty,  and  give  admission  to  the  other  woi£b!^>pers  sent  by  the 
angels ;  soon  there  shall  be  others  conducted  from  the  fai  | 
East  by  a  star,  appearing  as  a  prophetic  sign  in  the  heavens. 


60.  Tub  AvoBLrs  Bell. 

1.  rpHE  large  moon  of  antunm, 
•!■  The  guardian  of  night, 
Had  closed  b?r  pale  lamp 

Jn  the  firmament's  height ; 
From  the  Black  Abbey's  towem 

The  wild  doves  career'd, 
As  the  bright  dawn  of  mom   . 

Awaking  appear'd ; 
And  the  old  marble  city, 
From  campanile  grey, 
Proclaim'd  to  the  burghers 
All  Noreward — "  'twas  day  I" 
Then  the  long,  mellow  knell 
Of  the  Angelus  Bell 


THB  ANOELUS   BETX. 

Seem'd  psalming  and  singing 
O'er  bless'd  crypt  and  cell, 
Where  the  Black  Monks  were  wont 

In  the  old  times  to  dwell. 

*  «  «  4c  * 

'Twas  noon,  at  the  market-cross, 

In  the  quaint  town. 
And  the  burgher  so  comely, 

The  tall  peasant  brown, 
And  the  gaunt  maorat-arms. 

And  mild  maiden  meek. 
With  the  peacfahblush  of  beauty 

And  peace  on  her  cheek. 
Were  crowding  together 

In  hundreds  around. 
While  the  tall  cross  stood  stately 
'Mid  tumult  and  sound. 

Then  the  long,  mellow  knell 

Of  the  AngeluB  Bell 
Upon  the  dense  crowd 

In  the  market-place  fell ; 
And  the  burgher  knelt  down, 

And  the  peasant  as  well, 
And  the  g^unt  soldier  rude. 

At  the  peal  of  the  bell. 
While  the  pure  maiden  voice 

Join'd  the  long,  mellow  kneU 

*  *  ♦  *  « 

'Twas  night  o'er  the  abbey. 

The  moon  *t()^o  again 
O'er  the  grand  domes  of  pleasure 

And  poor  haunts  of  pain  ^ 
And  the  wild  dove  was  nestled 

Again  in  the  cleft 
Of  the  old  belfry  tower 

That  early  he  left ; 
And  the  pale  monks  were  sitting 

Alone  and  alone. 


284 


TQB  THIRD  READER. 


With  lamps  still  nnlighted, 
And  penitent  moan ; 

When  the  Angelas  Bell, 

With  its  long,  mellow  knell, 
Broke  up  their  lone  reveries 

Like  a  blest  spell ; 
And  down  on  the  cold  earth 

The  holy  men  fell, 
The  grand  prayer  to  chant 

And  their  long  beads  to  tell ; 
While  sang  with  its  psalm-voice 

The  Angelus  Bell. 


61.  The  Adoration  of  the  Haoi. 

WHEN  the  eastern  sages  beheld  this  wondrous  and  long 
expected  star,  they  rejoiced  greatly ;  and  they  arose,  anq 
taking  leave  of  thehr  lands  and  their  vassals,  their  relations  anq 
their  friends,  set  forth  on  theur  long  and  perlons  journey  ovei 
vast  deserts  and  mountains,  and  broad  rivers,  the  star  goind 
before  them,  and  arrived  at  length  at  Jerusalem,  with  a  grea^ 
and  splendid  train  of  attendants.  Being  come  there  they  aske 
at  once,  "  Where  is  he  who  is  bom  King  of  the  Jews?" 

2.  On  hearing  this  question.  King  Herod  was  troubled,  and 
all  the  dty  with  him ;  and  he  inquired  of  the  chief  priebta 
where  Christ  should  be  bom.    AJid  they  said  to  him"Ii| 
Bethlehem  of  Juda."    Then  Herod  privately  called  the 
men,  and  desired  they  would  go  to  Bethlehjem,  and  search  foi| 
the  young  child  (he  was  careful  not  to  call  him  King), 
ing,  "  When  ye  have  found  him,  bring  me  word,  that  I  ab 
may  come  and  worship  him." 

3.  So  the  Magi  departed,  and  the  star  which  they  had  secij 
in  the  east  went  before  them,  until  it  stood  over  the  pla 
where  the  young  child  was — ^he  who  wap  born  King  of  king 
They  had  travelled  many  a  long  and  weary  mile ;  "  and  vl 
had  they  come  to  bee  V    Instead  of  a  sumptuous  jpalace,  il 


1US  ADOBATION  OF  TUK  MAGI. 


285 


aud  lowly  dwelling ;  in  place  of  a  monarch  suiTOunded 
rhis  guards  and  ministers  and  all  the  terrors  of  his  state,  an 
(faot  wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes  and  laid  upon  his  mother's 

between  the  ox  and  the  ass. 
\i  They  had  come,  perhaps,  from  some  far-distant  savage 

or  from  some  nation  calling  itself  civilized,  where  inno> 
nice  bad  never  been  accounted  sacred,  where  society  had  a 


It  taken  no  heed  of  the  defenceless  woman,  no  care  for  the 
ilpless  child ;  where  the  one  was  enslaved,  and  the  other  per 
lerted :  and  here,  under  the  form  of  womanhoox'  and  child 

od,  tLey  were  called  upon  to  worship  the  promise  of  that 
righter  future,  when  peace  should  inherit  the  earth,  and  right- 
bnsness  prevail  over  deceit,  and  gentleness  with  wisdom  reign 
|r  ever  and  ever  1 

5.  How  mnst  they  have  been  amazed !  how  must  they  hava 


I^CMppi'*  • 


236 


THn  THIBD  READER. 


wondered  in  their  souls  at  such  a  revelation  I — ^yet  snch  i 
the  faith  of  these  wise  men  and  excellent  kings,  that  thej 
once  prostrated  themselves,  confessmg  in  the  glorioas  Inno 
who  smiled  npon  them  from  his  mother's  knee,  a  greater  I 
themselves — ^the  image  of  a  truer  divinity  than  they  had  i 
yet  acknowledged. 

6.  And  havmg  bowed  themselves  down — first,  as  was  \ 
t,  ofllBring  tJiemaelves, — they  made  offering  of  their  treaaij 

as  it  had  been  written  in  ancient  times,  "  The  king-q  of ' 
flhish  and  the  isles  shall  bring  presents,  and  the  kings  of  Sh 
snail  offer  gifts."  And  what  were  these  gifts?  Gold,  fn 
incense,  and  myrrh ;  by  which  symbolical  oblation\they  profJ 
ed  a  tlureefold  faith ; — ^by  gold,  that  he  was  king ;  by  inceij 
that  he  was  Ood ;  by  myrrh,  that  he  was  man,  and  doon 
to  death. 

7.  In  return  for  their  gifts,  the  Saviour  bestowed  n^ 
them  others  of  more  matchless  price.    For  their  gold  he  | 
them  charity  and  spiritual  riches;  for  their  incense,  perff 
faith;  and  for  their  myrrh  perfect  truth  and  meekness:! 
the  Virgin,  his  mother,  also  bestowed  on  them  a  precious  | 
and  memorial,  namely,  one  of  those  linen  bands  in  which 
bad  wrapped  the  Saviour,  for  which  they  thanked  her 
great  humility,  and  laid  it  up  among  their  treasures. 

8.  When  they  had  performed  their  devotions  and 
theur  offierings,  being  warned  in  a  dream  t«  avoid  Herod,  tbj 
turned  bade  again  to  their  own  dominions ;  and  the  star  wlul 
had  formerly  guided  them  to  the  west,  now  went  before  thd 
towards  the  east,  and  led  them  safely  home.  When  they  we( 
arrived  there,  they  laid  down  their  earthly  stater;  and  k 
nlation  of  the  poverty  and  humility  in  which  they  had  fon 
the  Lord  of  all  power  and  might,  they  distributed  then:  go 
and  possessions  to  the  poor,  and  went  about  in  mean  atti]| 
preaching  to  their  people  the  new  king  of  heaven  and  i 
the  Ghitj)-Kino,  the  Prince  of  Peace. 

9.  We  are  not  told  what  was  the  success  of  their  missioi 
neither  Is  it  anywhere  recorded,  that  from  that'  time  foil 
every  child,  as  it  sat  on  iU  mother's  knee,  was,  even  fori 
sake  of  that  Prince  of  Peace,  regarded  as  sacred — as  the 


lONA. 


287 


|i  dime  nature — as  one  whose  tiny  limbs  enfolded  a  spirit 
ich  was  to  expand  into  the  man,  the  king,  the  Ood. 

Snch  a  result  was,  perhaps,  reserved  for  other  times, 

I  the  whole  mission  of  that  divine  Child  should  be  better 

lentood  than  it  was  then,  or  is  riow.    Bat  there  is  an  an* 

lit  tradition,  that  about  forty  years  later,  when  St.  T^iomas 

I  Apostle  travelled  into  the  Indies,  he  found  these  wise  men 

«,  and  administered  to  them  the  rite  of  baptism ;  and 

Hfterwards,  in  carrying  the  light  of  truth  into  the  far 

it,  they  fell  among  barbarous  Qentiles,  and  were  put  to 

jith;  thus  each  of  them  receiving  in  return  for  the  earthly 

ma  they  had  ca"t  at  the  feet  of  the  Saviour,  the  heavenly 

jm  of  martyrdom  and  of  everlasting  life. 


i*'; 


62.  lONA. 

[LOWLT  and  sadly  the  company  of  Druids  retired  to  their 

homes  in  the  depth  of  the  ancient  wood,  and  not  many  hours 

passed  when  they  quitted  lona  forever,  and  with  it  re* 

aed  the  religious  supremacy  of  those  far  Western  Isles, 

here  they  had  for  ages  ruled  ahnost  as  gods. 


>  If:; 


! 


238 


THE   THIKD  BBADBB. 


2.  Aft;,er  solemnly  blessing  the  little  island,  St.  ColuJ 
kille  proceeded  to  erect  a  stately  monastery  and  a  s] 
church.  Some  years  after,  he  founded  a  convent  of  Ana 
tinian  nuns,  and  the  lonely  isle  of  lona  was  soon  as  famous  1 
Ohristian  piety  as  it  had  formerly  been  for  heathen  siiJ 
stition.  It  haid  early  been  chosen  as  a  burial-place  for 
princes  of  the  Fictish  and  Scottish  monarchies,  on  accoantl 
its  remote  and  isolated  position,  and  the  sacred  charactei 
had  acquired.  These  causes  continued  to  influence  the  neij 
boring  sovereigns,  in  a  still  higher  degree,  after  the  island  I 
become  a  distinguished  seat  of  Christianity. 

8.  Even  now,   after  the  lapse  of  many  centuriei 
prmce,  or  king,  or  bishop,  was  buried  in  lona,  the  travel! 
may  still  behold  the  ruined  monuments  which  marked  th 
place  of  rest.    "  A  little  to  the  north  of  the  cathedral,"  e^ 
a  modem  writer,  "  are  the  remains  of  the  bishop's  house;  i 
on  the  south  is  a  chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Oran,  almost  entij 
sixty  feet  long  and  twenty-two  broad,  within  the  walls,  1 
nearly  filled  up  with  rubbish  and  monumental  stones.    In  tl 
are  many  tombstones  of  marble,  particularly  of  the  great  loij 
of  the  Isles. 

4.  **  South  of  the  chapel  is  an  inclosure  called  Beilig  On 
the  burying-ground  of  Oran,  containing  a  great  number  I 
tombs,  but  BO  overgrown  with  weeds  as  to  render  most  of  t| 
inscriptions  illegible.     In  this  inclosure  lie  the  remains 
forty-eight  Scottish  kings,  four  kings  of  Ireland,  eight  Nq| 
wegian  monarchs,  and  one  king  of  France,  who  were 
bitions  of  reposing  on  this  consecrated  ground,  where  thcj 
ashes  should  not  mix  with  the  dust  of  the  vulgar.'' 

5.  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi,  might  well  be  inscribed  ov| 
the  forgotten  graves  of  lona,  where  so  many  princes 
n^Atj  men  have  mouldered  into  dust — where  the  arclutt 
tnral  glories  of  former  ages  lie  around  in  broken  and 
less  masses. 

<"The  column,  with  its  capital,  is  level  with  tl  e  dust, 
And  the  proud  halls  of  the  mighty,  and  the  a  Im  homes  of  the  ju 
For  the  proudest  works  of  man,  as  certainly,  but  slower, 
Pass  lilce  the  grass  at  the  sharp  scythe  of  the  mower  t 


8T.  OOLUMBA  BLB88UfQ  THB  IBLE8. 


288 


I'S 


'But  the  gran  growi  again  when  in  mi^eatj  and  mirth, 
On  the  wing  of  the  Spring  oomei  the  OoddeM  of  the  Bartk| 
But  for  man.  in  this  world,  no  apring-tide  e'er  return! 
To  the  labors  of  hie  hands  or  the  ashes  of  his  urns." 


63.  St.  Ooluuba  blessino  ths  Isles. 

1.  4  ND  now  the  choral  voices  hnsh'd, 
iX  And  ceased  the  organ  tone ', 

As  to  the  altar-steps,  high  raised, 

Sad,  silent,  and  alone, 
The  traveller  pass'd.    To  him  all  eyes 

Tam'd  revere /.t  as  he  trod. 
And  whispering  voices,  eacl)  to  each, 

Proclahn'd  the  man  of  God — 
Golnmba,  in  his  ancient  place. 
Radiant  with  glory  and  with  grace 

2.  Back  fell  h'j  cowl — ^his  mantle  dropp'd,     '^ 

And  in  a  stream  of  light, 
A  halo  round  his  ag^  head. 

And  robed  in  dazzling  white — 
The  saint  with  smiles  of  heavenly  love 

Stretch'd  forth  his  hands  to  pray, 
And  kings  and  thanes,  fuid  monks  and  jarii^ 

Knelt  down  hi  their  array. 
Silent,  with  pallid  lips  compress'd. 
And  hands  crossed  hmnbly  on  their  breast 

8.  He  craved  a  blessing  on  the  Isles, 

And  named  them,  one  by  one — 
Fair  western  ides  that  love  the  glow 

Of  the  departiog  son. 
From  Arran  looming  in  the  south,  > 

To  northern  Orcades, 
Then  to  Icna  back  again. 

Through  all  those  porilpns  seas^ 


k\ 


4 

i 


f  1 


840 


TBS  TUIBD  BBADEB. 


Three  nights  and  days  the  laint  had  lail'd, 
To  count  the  Hebrides. 

4.  He  loved  them  for  lona's  sake, 

The  isle  of  prayer  and  praise, 
Where  Truth  and  Knowledge  found  a  homt 

When  fall'n  on  evil  days. 
And  now  he  bless'd  them,  each  and  all, 

And  pray'd  that  erermore, 
Plenty  and  peace  and  Christian  loye, 

Might  smile  on  eveiy  shore,  \ 

And  that  their  mountain  glens  might  be 
The  abiding-places  of  the  free.  ' 

6.  Then,  as  he  ceased,  kings,  abbots,  earls, 

And  all  the  shadowy  train, 
Bose  from  their  knees,  and  choral  songs 

Re-echoed  loud  again — 
And  then  were  hush'd — the  lights  bnra'd  dii^ 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day. 
The  saint  and  all  the  ghostly  choir 

Dissolved  in  mist  away : 
Atrial  voices  sounding  still 
Sweet  harmonies  from  Dnni's  hill. 


And  every  year  Oolnmba  makes,, 

Whie  yet  the  summer  smiles, 
AImr,  within  his  spectral  boat, 

"Bm  oiicrlt  of  the  Isles ; — 
Aai  monks  and  abbots,  thanes  and  kiqgi^ 

FroBi  vault  and  channel  start, 
DtxiWried,  in  the  rite  to  bear 

T^  dim,  allotted  part. 
And  crave,  nnon  their  bended  kneen^ 
A  blessing  on  the  Hebrides. 


H 


lomt 


THE  OBSIBVUfO  JUDOK. 


04.  Thb  Obsbbvino  Juoob. 


241 


FN  a  district  of  Algeria,  distingniflhed  by  a  name  which,  be- 
L  ing  translated,  signifies  The  Fine  Oonntry,  there  lived,  in  the 

Ijear  1860,  an  Arab  chief  or  sheik,  named  BoB'Akas,  who 

llield  despotic  sway  over  tweWe  tribes. 

2.  Haring  heard  that  the  cadi,  or  Judge,  over  one  of  these 
jtrelre  tribes,  administered  Juitice  in  an  admirable  manner,  and 
Ipronoonced  decisions  worthy  of  Khig  Solomon  hbnself.  Boa- 
Akas  determined  to  Judge  for  himself  as  to  the  truth  of  the 

[report. 

3.  Accordingly,  dressed  like  a  private  individual,  without 
linns  or  attendants,  he  set  out  for  the  cadi's  town,  mounted 
oa  a  docile  Arabian  steed.  He  arrived  there  and  was  Just 
entering  the  gate,  when  a  cripple,  seizhig  the  border  of  his 

I  mantle,  asked  him  for  ahns. 

4.  Bou-Akas  gave  him  money,  but  the  cripple  still  main- 
tained his  hold.  "  What  dost  thou  want  ?"  asked  the  sheik , 
"I  have  already  given  thee  ahns."  ^^  Yes,"  replied  the  beg- 
gar ;  "  but  the  law  says,  not  only '  thou  shait  give  alms  to  thy 
brother,'  but  also, '  thou  shall  ak>  ^or  thy  brother  whatsoever 
tbou  canst.'  " 

6.  "Well;  and  what  om  I  do  for  thee 7"  "Thou  canst 
save  me—poor,  crawliqf  creature  that  I  ami — ^firom  being 
trodden  under  the  feet  of  men,  horses,  mules,  and  camels, 
which  would  certainly  happen  to  me  in  passmg  througk  the 
crowded  square,  m.  which  a  fair  is  now  going  on." 

6.  "And  how  can  I  save  thee?"  "By  letting  me  ride 
behind  you,  and  patting  me  down  safely  in  the  market-place, 
where  I  have  bimiwinn."  "  Be  it  so,"  replied  the  sheik.  And, 
etoopiiig  down,  he  helped  the  cripple  to  get  up  behind  hun ; 
which  was  not  accomplished  without  much  difficulty. 

7.  TIm  strangely-assorted  couple  attracted  many  eyes  as 
J»j  passed  through  the  crowded  streets ;  and  at  length  they 
reached  the  marke^llace.  "  Is  this  where  you  wish  to  stop  ?" 
Mked  Bou-Akas.  "Yes."  "  Then  get  down."  "Get  down 
yourself."    "  What  for  ?"    "  To  leave  me  the  horse." 

11 


4 


942 


THB  THIBL  BBADBB. 


8.  "  To  leave  yja  my  horse  1    What  mean  yon  by  that] 
"  I  mean  that  he  belongs  to  me.    Enow  yon  not  that  we 
now  in  the  town  of  the  jost  cadi,  and  that  if  we  bring  the 
before  him  he  will  certainly  decide  in  myfayor?''    "TThj 
should  he  do  so,  when  the  animal  belongs  to  me?'' 

9.  "Do  yon  not  think  that  when  he  sees  ns  two,— -yoi 
with  your  strong  straight  limbs,  so  well  fitted  for  walking^ 

nd  I  with  my  weak  legs,  and  distorted  feet, — he  will  dc 
that  the  horse  shall  belong  to  him  who  has  most  need  o^ 
him?''    "  Should  he  do  so,  he  would  not  be  the  jwt  cadi,"| 
said  Bon-Akas. 

10.  "Oh I  as  to  that,"  replied  the  cripple,  laughing,  "al- 
though he  is  just,  he  is  not  infallible."    "  So  1"  thought  the  I 
sheik  to  himself,  "  this  will  be  a  ca^Htal  opportunity  of  judging 
the  judge."    Then  turning  to  the  cripple,  he  said  aloud,  "l! 
am  content — we  will  go  before  the  cadi." 


65.  Thb  Obsebvino  Judos — torUmued. 

ARRIVED  at  the  tribunal,  where  the  judge,  according  to 
the  Eastern  custom,  was  publicly  administering  justice, 
they  found  that  two  trials  were  about  to  go  on,  and  would,  of 
eourse,  take  precedence  of  theirs.  The  first  was  between  a 
taleb,  or  learned  man,  and  a  peasant. 

2.  The  point  in  dispute  was  the  taleb's  wife,  whom  the 
peasant  had  carried  off,  and  whom  he  asserted  to  be  his  own 
better  half,  in  the  face  of  the  philosopher,  who  demanded  her 
restoration.  The  woman  (strange  circmnstance  1)  remained 
obstinately  silent,  and  would  not  declare  for  either;  a  feature 
in  the  case  which  rendered  its  decision  extremely  difficult. 

8.  The  cadi  heard  both  sides  attentively,  reflected  for  a 
momrat,  and  then  said,  "  Leave  the  wonum  here,  and  return 
to-morrow."  The  learned  man  and  the  laborer  each  bowed 
and  retired,  and  the  next  case  was  called.  This  was  a  dillto- 
enoe  between  a  butcher  and  an  oil-seller.    The  latter  appeared 


Btered  witli  oU, 
le  butcher  spoto 

^  <«  I  went  to 
pay  him  for  it, 
le  sight  of  the 
Ut.    I  cried  01 
Ire,  having  come 
L  hand,  and  he 
5.  Then  spoke 
IcbaieoUfromnM 
yott  change  for  a 
'drew  out  my  hai 
my  shop.    He  « 
and  my  oil,  ^^^f 
•Ilobberl'    la 
tender  the  mow 
nnght  decide  th 
6.  The  cadi 
varied  one  jot  I 
a  moment,  and 
letum  to-morr 
had  never  let 
which,  I'e  and 
1.  It  was 
"My  lord  ca( 
taut  country, 
asked  for  ahn 
hind  me  throi 
In  the  crowd, 
place  he  refn 
to  him,  and 
who  wanted 
8.  Then  i 
wascon^ 
which  beloi 
apparently 
with  me  a 
me    Bat, 


THB  OBSBBVIMG  JDDOB. 


243 


by  thai] 
rt  We 
the 

[tiro,-yot 


need  0/ 
fU8t  cadi  "I 

ng,  "alJ 
>«ght  the  I 


alond,  "I 


•rdlng  to 
r  jnstice, 
roald,  of 
tireen  a 

torn  the 
Ws  own 
led  her 
fflained 
reatare 
It. 

for  • 
retnrn 
Iwwed 
differ. 

eared 


irered  with  oil,  and  the  former  was  sprinkled  with  blood. 
le  batcher  spoke  first  and  said : 

4.  "  I  went  to  bay  some  oil  from  this  ma%  and,  in  order 
pay  him  for  it,  I  drew  a  handftd  of  money  from  my  parse. 
e  sight  of  the  money  tempted  him.    He  seized  me  by  the 

iffrist.  I  cried  oat,  bat  he  woald  not  let  me  go ;  and  here  we 
ire,  having -come  befbre  yoar  worship,  I  holding  my  money  in 
ny  hand,  and  he  still  grasping  my  wrist." 

5.  Then  spoke  the  oil-merchant:  "This  man  came  to  par* 
chase  oil  from  me.  Whea  his  bottle  was  filled  he^said,  'Have 
joa  change  for  a  piece  of  gold?'  I  searched  my  pocket,  and 
drew  oat  my  hand  fall  of  money,  which  I  laid  on  a  bench  in 
my  shop.  He  seized  it,  and  was  walking  off  with  my  money 
and  my  oil,  when  I  caught  him  by  the  wrist,  and  cried  oat 
'Robber  I'  In  spite  of  my  cries,  however,  he  woald  not  snr- 
lender  the  money ;  so  I  brought  him  here,  that  your  worship 
might  decide  the  case." 

6.  The  cadi  caused  each  to  repeat  his  story,  but  neither 
varied  one  jot  from  his  original  statement.  He  reflected  for 
a  moment,  and  then  stdd,  "  Leave  the  money  with  me,  and 
return  to-morrow."  The  butcher  placed  the  coins,  which  he 
had  never  let  go,  on  the  edge  of  the  cadi's  mantle.  After 
which,  he  and  his  opponent  bowed  and  departed. 

7.  It  was  now  the  turn  of  Bou-Akas  and  the  cripple. 
"  My  lord  cadi,"  said  the  former,  "  I  came  hither  firom  a  dis- 
tant country.  At  the  city  gate  I  met  this  cripple,  who  first 
asked  for  ahns,  and  then  prayed  me  to  allow  him  to  ride  be- 
hind me  through  the  streets,  lest  he  should  be  trodden  down 
hi  the  crowd.  I  consented,  but  when  we  reached  the  market- 
place  he  refused  to  get  down,  assertmg  that  my  horse  belonged 
to  him,  and  that  your  lordsUp  would  surely  adjudge  it  to  hun 
who  wanted  it  most." 

8.  Then  spoke  the  cripple.  **  My  lord,"  said  he,  "  as  1 
waa  coming  on  business  to  the  market,  and  riduig  this  horse 
which  belongs  to  me,  I  saw  this  man  seated  by  the  roadside, 
apparently  half  dead  from  fatigue.  I  oifered  to  let  him  ride 
with  me  as  far  as  the  market-place,  and  he  eagerly  thanked 
me     Bat,  on  our  arrival,  he  reftised  to  get  down,  and  said 


244 


THE  THIRD  BEADEB. 


that  the  horse  was  his.    I  immediately  required  him  to  ai 
peai  before  your  worship,  in  order  that  you  might  decide 
tweeu  us." 

9.  Haying  required  each  to  make  oath  to  his  statemen 
and  having  reflected  for  a  moment,  the  cadi  said,  "Leavj 
the  horse  here,  and  return  to-morrow."  It  .was  done,  au 
Bon-Akas  and  the  cripple  withdrew  in  different  directions. 


66.  The  Observing  Judge — concluded. 


t  the  sUghtest 

5  ««»T58  weU," 

l-The  cadi  soon  af 

cripple  arrived,  ji 

fl^e,"  said  the  «| 

him."    Then  to 

It  was  done;  voi 

g.  When  the  c 

was  retiring  to  h 

•'Art  thou  diso 

"No,  qaite  the 

to  ask  by  what 


0 


N  the  morrow,  a  number  of  persons,  besides  those  imnieB^®'*)'       j   ^ 
-    diately  interested  in  the  trials,  assembled  to  hear  th«l  *^  vas^^' 
judge's  decisions.  The  taleb,  or  learned  man,  and  the  peasant,!  twelve  tn     i 
were  called  first.  "  Take  away  thy  wife,"  said  the  cadi  to  the|  ^^^^JJ:     ^j 

hand.  "I««tt 
Bons  which  det< 
lord,"  tepUed  t 
saw  that  I  dei 
«I^d." 

8.  "WeU,* 

called,  and  I 

stand.'    Like 

fljed  times  b 

washed  them 

fresh  ink,  doi 

So  I  said  to 

about  inksta 

9.  "Gooc 

money?" 

••that  the  i 

oil?"    "Ce 

placed  it  in 

at  it,  and 

of  the  wat( 


former,  "  and  keep  her,  I  advise  thee,  in  good  order."  Then 
turning  towards  an  officer,  he  added,  pointing  to  the  peasant, 
"  Give  this  man  fifty  blows."  He  was  instantly  obeyed,  and 
the  taleb  carried  off  his  wife. 

2.  Then  came  forward  the  oil-merchant  and  the  butcher. 
"Here,"  said  the  cadi  to  the  butcher,  "is  thy  money;  it  is 
truly  thine,  and  not  his."  Then  pointing  to  the  oil-merchant, 
he  said  to  his  officer,  "  Give  this  man  fifty  blows."  It  was 
done,  and  the  butcher  went  away  in  triumph  with  his  money. 

3.  The  third  cause  was  called,  and  Bou-Akas  and  the  crip- 
ple came  forward.  "Wouldst  thou  recognize  thy  horse  among 
twenty  others?"  said  the  judge  to  Bou-Akas.  "Tes,  my 
lord."  "And  thou?"  "Certainly,  my  lord,"  repUed  the 
cripple.  "Follow  me,"  said  the  cadi  to  Bon-Akas.  They 
entered  a  large  stable,  and  Bou-Akas  pointed  out  his  horse 
amoi^  the  twenty  which  were  standing  side  by  side. 

4.  "  'TLs  well,"  said  the  judge^  "  Betum  now  to  the  tribu- 
nal, and  send  me  thine  adversary  hither."  The  disguised 
sheik  obeyed,  delivered  his  message,  and  the  cripple  hastened 
to  the  stable  as  quickly  as  his  distorted  limbs  allowed.  He 
had  quick  eyes  and  a  good  memory,  so  that  he  was  ablo,  with- 


THE  OBSEBVINO  JUDOS. 


245 


1^  toai 
decide 

statemes 

K  "Lew 

done,  ao 

StiOQS. 


•  botcher, 
ley;  it  is 
aerchant, 

It  was 
inonej. 
'he  crip. 
9  ftmong 
fes,  my 
ied  the 

They 
9  horse 

)  tribu- 
ignised 
stened 

•  He 
with- 


it  the  slightest  hesitation,  to  place  his  hand  on  the  right 
il. 

5.  "'Tis  well,"  said  the  cadi;  "return  to  the  tribunal." 
{The  cadi  soon  afterwards  resumed  his  place,  and,  when  the 
cripple  arrived,  judgment  was  pronounced.  "The  horse  is 
thine,"  said  the  cadi  to  Bou-Akas ;  "go  to  the  stable  and  take 
Mm."  Then  to  the  officer,  "  Give  this  cripple  fifty  blows.' 
I  It  was  done ;  and  Bou-Akas  went  to  take  his  horse. 

6.  When  the  cadi,  after  concluding  the  business  of  the  day 
Iras  retiring  to  his  house,  he  found  Bou-Akas  waiting  for  him 
"Art  thou  discontented  with  my  award?"  asked  the  judge 
"No,  quite  the  contrary,"  replied  the  sheik.  "But  I  want 
to  ask  by  what  In  -^''-^Hon  thou  hast  rendered  justice ;  for  I 
doubt  not  that  tb  i  .*  two  causes  were  decided  as  equitably 
as  mine.  I  am  n^b  n.  merchant.;  I  am  Bou-Akas,  sheik  of  the 
twelve  tribes,  and  I  wanted  to  judge  for  myself  of  thy  reputed 
wisdom." 

7.  The  cadi  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  kissed  his  master's 
hand.  "I  am  anxious,"  said  Bou-Akas,  "to  know  the  rear 
sons  which  determined  your  three  decisions."  "  Nothing,  my 
lord,"  replied  the  cadi,  "  can  be  more  simple.  Your  highness 
saw  that  I  detained  for  a  night  the  three  things  in  dispute?" 
"I  did." 

8.  "  Well,  early  in  the  monung  I  caused  the  woman  to  be 
called,  and  I  said  to  her  suddenly, '  Put  fresh  ink  in  my  ink- 
stand.' Like  a  person  who  has  done  the  same  thing  a  hun- 
dred times  before,  she  took  the  bottle,  removed  the  cotton, 
washed  them  both,  put  in  the  cotton  again,  and  poured  in 
firesh  ink,  doing  it  all  with  the  utmost  neatness  and  dexterity. 
So  I  said  to  myself,  'A  peasant's  wife  would  know  nothing 
abont  inkstands — she  must  belong  to  the  taleb.'  " 

9.  "  Good !"  said  Bou-Akas,  nodding  his  head.  '-  And  the 
money?"  "Did  your  highness  remark,"  asked  the  cadi, 
"  that  the  merchant  had  his  clothes  and  hands  covered  with 
oil?"  "Certainly  I  did."  "Well;  I  took  the  money,  and 
placed  it  in  a  vessel  filled  with  water.  This  morning  I  looked 
at  it,  and  not  a  particle  ot  oil  was  to  be  seen  on  the  surface 
of  the  water.    So  I  said  to  myself,  'If  this  money  belonged 


246 


THB  THIRD  READER. 


t    ;he  oil-merchant,  it  would  be  greasy,  from  the  touch  of  I 
bands ;  as  it  is  not  so,  the  butcher's  story  must  be  true.'  " 

10.  Bon-Akas  nodded  in  token  of  approval.  "Go.>dli 
said  he.  "And  my  horse?"  "Ahl  that  was  a  differentl 
business ;  and,  nntU  this  morning,  I  was  greatly  puzzled,'{ 
"The  cripple,  I  suppose,  did  not  recognize  the  animal?"  re-l 
marked  the  sheik.  "On  the  contrary,"  said  the  cadi,  "hel 
pointed  him  out  immediately."  "  How,  then,  did  you  discover  | 
that  he  was  not  the  owner?" 

11.  "My  object,"  replied  the  cadi,  "in  bringmg  you  (!cp< j 
arately  to  the  stable,  was  not  to  p^o  whether  yon  would  know 
the  Jiorse,  but  whether  the  horse  would  acknowledge  ym. 
Now,  when  you  approached  him,  the  creature  turned  towards 
you,  laid  back  his  ears,  and  neighed  with  delight ;  but  when 
the  cripple  touched  him,  he  kicked.  Then  I  knew  that  yon 
were  truly  his  master." 

12.  Bou-Akas  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
"  Allah  has  given  thee  great  wisdom.  Thou  oughtest  to  be 
in  my  p^ace,  and  I  in.  thine.  And  yet,  I  know  not ;  thou  art 
serlainly  worthy  to  be  sheik,  but  I  fear  that  I  should  but 
l)adly  fill  thy  place  as  cadi  I" 


Honors  ai 
And  bad 
Some  soli 
Had  mad 
The  little 


67.  HiEiTRY  THE  Hermft. 

IT  was  an  island  where  he  dwelt, 
A  soUtary  islet,  bleak  and  bare, 
Short  scanty  herbage  spotting  with  dark  spoto ' 
Its  gray  stone  surface.    Never  mariner 
Approach'd  that  rude  and  unmviting  coast, 
Nor  ever  fisherm&n  his  lonely  bark 
Anchor'd  beside  its  shore.    It  was  a  place 
Befitting  well  a  rigid  anchoret. 
Dead  to  the  hopes,  and  vanities,  and  joys, 
And  purposes  of  life ;  and  he  had  dwelt 
Many  long  years  upon  that  lonely  isle ; 
For  in  ripe  manhood  he  abandon'd  arms, 


No 
At 
fie 


HENBT  THB  HBBMIT. 


247 


>nch  of] 
true.'  >> 

'"Go..d|«| 

<iiffereiit( 

puzzled  "f 

cadi,  "j,e[ 
|a  discover  f 

you  ficp.  j 
>aJd  knoif  I 

towards 
[but  wlien 
that 


Honors  and  friends  and  country  and  the  world. 
And  had  grown  old  in  solitude.    That  isle 
Some  solitary  man  in  other  times 
Had  made  his  dwellmg-plaoe ;  and  Henry  foand 
The  little  chapel  which  his  toil  had  built 


i3 


■f" 


.;'  '  .. 


m 

W  1 

V  !' 

ii 

if 


i'^mmiujh. 


■Ill 


ii.ii!iuiiii!i;iiiiiflii' 


111 


\^ 


Now  by  the  storms  unroof  d ;  his  bed  of  leaves 
Wind-flcatter'd ;  and  his  grave  o'ergrown  with  grass, 
And  thistles,  whose  white  see  jls,  winged  in  vain, 
Wither'd  on  rocks,  or  in  the  waves  were  lost. 
80  he  repaired  the  chapePs  ruin'd  roof. 


t    V 


S48 


THE  TTIIRD  BBADEB. 


Cleared  the  gray  licbons  from  the  aItar«tone, 

And  nndemeatfa  a  rock  that  shelter'd  him 

jj^rom  the  sea-blast,  he  bnilt  his  hcormitage. 

The  peasants  from  the  shore  wonid  bring  him  food, 

And  beg  his  prayers ;  bat  human  converse  else 

He  knew  not  in  that  utter  solitude, 

Nor  ever  visited  the  haunts  of  men. 

Save  when  some  sinful  wretch  on  a  sick-bed 

Implored  his  blessing  and  his  aid  in  death. 

That  summons  he  dehiy'd  not  to  obey. 

Though  the  night  tempest  or  autumnal  wind 

Madden'd  the  waves ;  and  though  the  mariner, 

Albeit  relying  on  his  saintly  load. 

Grew  pale  to  see  the  peril.    Thus  he  lived 

A  most  austere  and  self-denying  man. 

Till  abstmence,  and  age,  and  watchfulness 

Had  worn  him  down,  and  it  was  pain  at  last 

To  rise  at  midnight  firom  his  bed  of  leaves 

And  bend  his  knees  in  prayer.    Tet  not  the  less, 

Though  with  reluctance  of  infinnity. 

Rose  he  at  midnight  from  his  bed  of  leaves. 

And  bent  his  knees  in  prayer ;  but  with  more  zeal, 

More  self-condenming  fervor,  raised  his  voice 

For  pardon  for  that  sin,  'till  that  the  sin 

Repented  was  a  joy  like  a  good  deed. 

One  night  upon  the  shore  his  chapel  bell 

Was  heard ;  the  air  was  cahn,  and  its  far  sounds 

Over  the  water  came  distinct  and  loud. 

Alarm'd  at  that  unusnal  hour  to  hear    -. 

Its  toll  irregular,  a  monk  arose. 

The  boatmen  bore  him  willingly  across,    ^ 

For  well  the  hermit  Henry  was  beloved. 

He  hastened  to  the  chapel ;  on  a  stone 

Henry  was  sitting  there,  cold,  stiff,  and  dead. 

The  bell-rope  in  his  hand,  and  at  his  feet 

The  lamp  that  streamed  a  long  unsteady  light. 


nOMB,  -Bditb 

\\j  BaidCbarlet 

'upon  the  Vftter 

a^wiUBotbe 

2   iipernaip 

came  to  the  v 

the  noble  ^es 

etoTmy  ocean. 

3  "Why 

I  should  be  ^ 

4  i«-yon 

Charles, 
one  place  a« 
eveiywbete. 

5.  "Bnt 

Charles?" 

land,"  reig 

father  tolc 

6.  "Tl 

danger. 

this  saUoi 

the  sea  u 

of  the  T 


GOD  18 


j-VEBYWHEBB. 


U^ 


^M 


''\   *ix 


68.  God  ib  Etbktwhbeiu 


^l  tTth.Uo^'^.^n^^.e  broad  I*«to»- 

8.  ..  Whj  »ot,  ^*^  „^  the  UtUe  girl        :         „     .j 
lAoridbedro^'  «^«*     ^,  „  you  are  ^-J^ 
^  .,  Yon  wda_be  3?f  "  j,  ^  u.»t  w  »«>  " '•*^  ^ 

^i::ee  :;r»^s.c*^^o«^ ''''' ^^'^ -^ "' "■ 

one  place  as  lu  »"        » 

tlie  sea  undiatnrDea  u       ^       ^.^^  ^^^  bailor,    wny  »" 
of  tho  pafisengora.      ^o,      i^^^ 


,-6)«W»»***f' 


S50 


THB  THIBD  BBADEB. 


be  afraid?'    'We  m0>y  all  be  drowned/  said  the  passei 
'All  of  us  hare  once  to  die/  ca^y  retomed  the  sailor. 

7.  "  The  passenger  was  surprised  to  see  the  man's  com] 
snre.    '  Have  yon  followed  the  sea  long?'  he  asked.    'Et( 
skice  I  was  a  boy ;  and  my  father  followed  it  before  me.' 

8.  "'Indeed  I    And'where  did  yonr  father  die?'    'Hewt 
drowned  at  sea,'  fSfflied  the  sailor.    'And  yonr  grandfather,] 
where  did  he  die  P    '  He  was  also  drowned  at  sea/  said  th( 
sailor.    *  Father  and  grandfather  drowned  at  sea !'  ezclaimedl 
the  passenger  in  astonishmoit,  'and  yon  not  afraid  to  go  to{ 
sea ?'    'No  I  God  is  ererywhere/  said  the  sailor  rererently. 

0.  " '  And  now/  he  added,  after  pausing  a  moment, '  may  I 
ask  yon  where  yonr  father  died  ?'  '  In  his  bed,'  replied  the 
passenger.  'And  where  did  his  father  die?'  'In  his  bed,' 
was  again  answered.  'Are  yon  not,  then,  afraid  to  go  to 
bed,'  «aid  the  sailor,  'if  yonr  father  and  grandfather  both 
died  there?'" 

10.  "  Oh  yes !  I  remember  it  very  well  now/'  said  Edith. 
"  I  know  that  the  Lord  takes  care  of  ns  always,  wherever  we 
may  be.    I  know  that  he  is  everywhere  present." 

11.  "And  he  wiU  take  as  good  care  of  the  people  in  that 
ship  as  he  does  of  those  who  are  on  the  land,"  replied  Charles. 
"  Father  says  th&t  we  should  always  go  whore  our  duties  call 
us,  whether  it  be  upon  land  or  upon  sea,  for  the  Lord  can  and 
will  protect  us  as  much  in  one  place  as  in  another." 


e,  apart  of  Wsw« 

Klttding^*^^"^®°' 
L  to  her  wants. 

8.  The  king  »«*' 
ducats,  and  slid  th« 
Returning  to  his 
Lge  awoke,  openc 
l'^^^  «« You  have 
lui  apology,  and, 
ihand  into  Ws  po< 
[He  drew  it  out, 

into  tears,  ^thou 

5   "What  18 

Ufeet,"80ineb< 

IcamebythiBn 
6.  "Myftienc 

in  our  sleep.    G» 

nfloie,  and  assur* 

1.  TWb  story 

tudi  and  duty  V 

fortiinatepaien 

8.  And,  if  t1 

,„,pleofFrede 

ibe  reward  tm 

tecompensedl 

and  by  that  G 

expression  of 


69.  Aneodotb  of  Fbbdebiok  the  Gbbat. 

1  FREDERICK  the  Great,  king  of  Prussia,  having  rung 
.    his  bell  one  day,  and  nobody  answering,  opened  the  door 
where  his  page  was  usually  in  waiting,  and  found  him  asleep 
n  a  sofa. 

2,  He  was  going  to  awake  him,  when  he  perceived  the  end 
of  a  billet  or  letter  hanging  out  of  his  pocket.  Having  the 
curiosity  to  know  its  contents,  he  took  and  read  it,  and  found 
it  was  a  letter  from  his  mother,  thanking  him  for  having  sent 


"" 


^  SMALL  0ATB0HI8M. 


261 


Loniiig  to  bis  <f^^  Za^L<A. 

I  A   "Von have  slept  weu,    bw"  »"*  rT°__»„ed  to  put  hia 

his  feet  "somebody  has  »"»«'"'„ 

I  came'by  this  >>«>»«y.'?SS  "Ood  oBea  sends  «s  good 
'    «  "  Mt  Weld,"  snid  I'ledenck,    «""     .  ^^  hw  in  my 

J;Sfdr^SSi^«-*-«'*'*^-'*^'"" 

ts^t^'X-TiS^-rtbro:::^: 

repression  of  filial  love. 

70.  A  Small  Oateohmm. 
1   TITHY  are  children's  eyes  so  bright? 
^'   \V        Tell  i:.e  why?" 


S52  TUB  TUIBD  BEADEB. 

2.  "  Why  do  children  laugh  so  gay  ? 
Tell  me  why?" 
"  'Tib  becaase  their  hearts  have  play 
In  their  bosoms,  every  day, 
Free  from  sin  and  sorrow's  sway — 

Therefore,  'tis  they  langh  so  gay." 

8   "  Why  do  children  speak  so  free  7 
Tell  me  why?" 
"  'Tis  because  from  fallacy. 
Cant,  and  seeming,  they  are  free, 
Hearts,  not  lips,  their  organs  be — 

Therefore,  'tis  they  speak  so  free." 

4.  "  Why  do  children  love  so  true  ? 
Tell  me  why?" 
"  'Tis  because  they  cleave  unto, 
A  familiar  fav'rite  few. 
Without  art  or  self  in  view — 

Therefore  children  love  so  true." 


4   «<  And  return 

Lrvantfllnmy^a*^ 
IperlBhwlthhungei 

land  say  to  Wm :  J 
Ibefore  thee;  la 
Lake  me  88  one 

Lent  to  to  fathei 


71.  The  Pbodioal  Son. 

A  CERTAIN  man  had  two  sons.  And  the  younger  of 
them  said  to  his  father :  '  Father,  give  me  the  portion  of 
substance  that  falleth  to  me.'  And  he  divided  unto  them  his 
substance. 

2.  "  And  not  many  days  after,  the  younger  son  gathering  all 
together,  went  abroad  into  a  far  country,  and  there  wasted 
his  substance  by  living  riotously.  And  after  he  had  spent  all, 
there  came  a  mighty  famine  in  that  country,  and  he  began  to 
be  in  want. 

3.  "  And  he  went,  and  joined  hunself  to  one  of  the  citizens 
of  that  country.  And  he  sent  him  into  his  farm,  to  feed  his 
iwine :  and  he  would  fain  have  filled  his  belly  with  the  husks 
the  swine  did  cat ;  and  no  man  gave  unto  hun. 


5.  •'  And 
him,  and  wa 

« Father,  I  ^ 

am  not  now 

6.  "Bnt 

quickly  the 

hand,  and 

and  kill  it, 

was  dead, 

And  they 

and  drew 


'  268 

THE  PUODIPVI^  SON. 

•A    '  How  nttttDy  Wrcd 

U»*<  to  >"y  '»*«\''TJ^  &m  go  to  my  f»*«. 

Lake  me  as  one  of  thy  nire 
Lent  to  bis  fot^er. 


_1^  ftff  his  father  saw 

,,   ..  ind  when  he  was  yet  a  great  way  m  .  ^^  ^^^ 

V     Intwas  moved  with  compasB.on   at^, J'.    ^^|  ,,1,^ 
him,  and  was  ^.^^^^  ^^^     And  tne  ^    ^ 

felUponhi8necic,a^  ^^^^^„^    „d  betore 

'^^^^^^^'^^irlTto  be  called  thy  son;  ^^^h 

T'Xrtt'^^^er  Bf  :;rhCnrputrSn|onlns 

Tnd  ^ey  began  to  be  merry.  ^^^  ^ten  he  came 


1 


254 


TRB  THIBD  BBADKB. 


he  called  one  Of  the  senranti,  and  asked  what  these  tbingi  I 
meant.    And  he  said  to  him :  '  Thy  brother  is  come,  and  thy 
father  hath  killed  the  fatted  calf,  becaase  he  hath  receired  him  | 
tah.*    And  he  was  angry,  and  would  not  go  hi. 

8.  "His  father,  therefore,  coming  out,  began  to  entreat 
him.  And  he,  answering,  said  to  his  father :  '  Behold,  for  lo 
many  years  I  serve  thee,  and  I  have  never  transgpressed  thy 
commandment ;  and  yet  thoa  hast  never  given  me  a  kid  to 
make  merry  with  my  Mends :  but  as  soon  as  this  thy  son  ii 
come,  who  hath  devoured  his  substance  with  harlots,  thoo 
hast  killed  for  him  the  fatted  calf.' 

9.  "  But  the  father  said  to  him :  '  Son,  thou  art  always 
with  me,  and  all  I  have  is  thine.  But  it  was  fit  that  we  shodd 
make  merry  and  be  glad :  for  this  thy  brother  was  dead,  and 
Is  come  to  Ufe  agahi :  he  was  lost,  and  is  found.' " 

10.  After  this  parable,  so  tender  and  so  touching ;  after 
this  language,  so  simple  vaA  yet  so  profound,  so  far  beyond 
all  human  conceptions;  after  these  lofty  revelations  of  the 
world,  of  life,  of  the  human  heart,  and  of  God,  one  would  wish 
to  speak  but  cannot :  the  heart  is  full,  but  we  cannot  give  ex- 
pression to  our  feeUngs.  What  shall  I  tell  yon,  children  t  do 
yon  not  understand,  do  yon  not  feel  the  parable,  that  this 
father  is  God  ?  that  these  two  sons  are  men,  the  children  of 
God,  some  fdthftil,  others  unfaithftd  to  their  father  ? 

11.  If  it  is  the  youngest  who  leaves  the  paternal  house,  it 
is  because  that  it  is  in  youth,  the  age  of  weakness  and  mex- 
perience,  that  the  errors  and  uregnlarities  of  life  usually  occur. 
When  a  man  has  remained  faithful  to  God,  on  through  youth 
to  mature  age,  the  age  of  strength  and  reason,  it  is  very 
rarely  that  he  falls  away  from  his  service  at  a  later  period. 

12.  That  a  prodigal  squanders  away  his  substance  In  the 
distant  country  to  which  he  betakes  himself,  yon  can  also 
easfly  understand.  At  the  very  moment  when  one  abandons 
God,  he  loses  all  the  treasures  of  the  soul,  sin  robs  him  of  all. 
That  there  is  famine  in  that  strange,  land,  how  could  it  be 
otherwise  ?  'God  is  the  only  source  of  life,  of  good,  of  happi* 
ness ;  away  from  him,  what  can  there  be  but  famine,  indigence^ 
and  misery. 


an 


b 
w 


th 


T>LANOHE 
D  Castile,  ar 
she  displayed 
manners  far^ 
tUrteen  to  t 
guBtuB,  and 
VIII.    This 
vras  one  of 
year  between 
the  bride. 

3.  She  wi 
took  place  ^ 
toterested  in 
vogue  was  i 
betrothed  V 
They  were 
which  coul 
founded  t1 


BLAMOB»    )F  OAOTILK. 


26ft 


rt  always 
we  shoold 
lead,  and 

ng;  after 
T  beyond 
18  of  the 
oald  wish 
t  giye  ex- 
tdrent  do 
that  this 
tuldrenof 
P 

house,  it 
and  inex- 
Jly  occur, 
tgh  yonth 
t  is  very 
leriod. 
ce  in  the 
can  also 
abandons 
dm  of  all. 
>ald  it  be 
of  happi- 
indigence^ 


Utten ;  MbUitj  of  ''"*;J'1„  hambl«  himelf.  at  th. 

C^iight  of,  «d  the  ^i^  ^0 ;     a„t  ta  to  m.  *• 

L„M  pwion.  of  *?^  •_,  "h„  food  but  that  wblcb 

P,  th<  .irine,  namely,  t^m  P"" 

C-Tb.«wtr»ttb««r,^*Mj;^'»^'tSCiU 
L^  the  «.»!.  *.ke.  pl~«»;^to  f  ^^^  ^un  to  the  «r, 
L„  i.  the  mort  croel  ni«>»« lL  .  ..flow  dom,"  "  W 
k-rt  rJST^tt tJS:«.  and  It  t«ap...  bim 

"and  let  me  paw  ,    Bl- 
onder its  feet.  ' 

72.  Blakohb  of  Oabtilb. 
I TJLAKOHE  was'  the  aa««bt«  ofA.ph»».  ^.^ 
D  CartBe.  and  of  Ele«>ot  <^f'«^^'^  „  austerity  of 
mannen  far  beyond  ha  age.    on  ^^  ^^  p^j,^  ^^ 

brt^IeirS-ialheS.^^--^-'-- 

the  bride.  -      ^  ,  .„  Normandy,  wbere  tbe  ma^^age 

2  Sbe  was  conducted  to  ^^^^^^'^  ^he  three  kingdoms 

tooi  place  with  a  -l^^if  ^^X^!^^!  :nd  amusement  then  m 

inter^ted  in  this  alhi^ce^ .  ^^^^ /^be  occasion ;  but  the  two 

vogue  was  inaugurated  in  ^^^l^'      ^^^  g^M  ornament. 


256 


THE  THIRD  BEADEK. 


nonnced  on  them,  that  they  lived  together  for  twenty-t 
years  without  a  single  disagreement. 

8.  Bat  the  wit  and  wisdom  of  Blanche  were  no 
markable  than  her  beanty  and  nobleness  of  character ;  so  tha| 
her  father-in-law,  the  king,  wonld  often  consult  her,  and 
the  greatest  deference  to  her  advice ;  and  so  great  was  th^ 
ascendency  she  acquired  over  her  husband,  that  he  would  i 
sist  on  her  presence  in  the  council-chamber,  and  even  at 
military  expeditions. 

4.  When  Blanche  became  a  mother,  she  exhibited  stil 
greater  virtues.    Esteeming  it  a  great  duty  to  nourish  he^ 
children,  she  would  not  suffer  this  care  to  devolve  on  another.l 
The  eldest  of  her  sons  dying  at  an  early  age,  the  second! 
oeing  destined  to  rule  over  France,  became  the  object  of  hisj 
mother's  tenderest  care.    She  seemed  to  foresee  the  gloryj 
which  this  prince  would  shed  over  his  house,  and  at  hia  birth  I 
ordered  the  church  bells  to  be  rung  (which  had  ceased  for 
fear  of  disturbing  the  queen),  "  to  invite  all  the  people  to  go  | 
and  praise  God  for  having  given  her  so  sweet  a  son." 

5.  Blanche  devoted  herself  entirely  to  the  formation  of  the 
mind  of  this  young  prince.  Every  evening  before  they  retired 
to  rest,  she  took  her  children  on  her  knee,  caressed  them  most 
affectionately,  and  told  them  some  little  anecdote  of  some  vir- 
tuous action,  so  as  to  impress  it  on  their  infant  minds.  She 
repeatedly  said  to  Louis— "My  son,  God  knows  how  ten- 
derly 1  love  you  1  butl  would  rather  see  you  dead  at  my  f«tet 
than  guilty  of  one  mortal  sin  I" — ^words  repeated  ttom  ag*  to 
age  to  the  praise  of  the  good  Blanche  of  Oastil»  1 


73  Hail!  Vibgin  of  Vibtinp 

1    TTAILI  Virgin  of  virginsi 

-U.  Thy  praises  we  smg, 

Thy  throne  is  in  heaven. 

Thy  Son  is  its  King. 


HAIL,  VIEOIN  OF  VTROniS. 

The  saints  and  the  angelB 
Thy  glory  proclaim; 

All  nations  devoutly 
Bow  down  at  thy  name 


257 


II 


Let  all  sing  of  Maty, 
The  mystical  Boa, 
The  Mirror  of  Justice, 

The  Handmaid  of  Gpd 
Let  vaUey  and  mountain 

IJnite  in  ber  praise; 
The  sea  with  its  waters, 
T\ie  sun  with  itn  rays. 


«*«*»«?*• 


268 


THB  THIRD  BBATIinL 


i;BQSXn>  < 


8.  Let  souls  that  ore  holy 

Still  holier  be, 
To  sing  with  the  angels, ' 

Sweet  Mary,  of  thee. 
Let  all  who  are  sinners 

To  virtue  retain, 
That  hearts  withont  niunbor 

With  thy  love  may  bom. 

4.  Thy  name  is  onr  power,  . 

Thy  lore  is  our  light ; 
We  praise  thee  at  morning, 

At  noon  and  at  night. 
We  thank  thee,  we  bless  thee^ 

When  hai^y  and  free ; 
When,  tempted  by  Satan, 

We  call  upon  thee. 

6.  The  world  does  not  love  thet^ 

O  beautiful  one  1 
Because  it  despises 

The  cross  of  thy  Son. 
But  thou  art  tiie  Mother 

Of  all  Adam's  race ; 
The  birth-stain  of  Eva 

'Tis  thine  to  eiface. 

6.  Oh  I  be  then  our  Mother, 

And  pray  to  the  Lord, 
That  all  may  acknowledge 

And  worship  his  Word ; 
That  good  men  with  courage 

May  wtik  in  his  ways, 
And  'bad  men  conyerted 

May  join  in  his  praise. 


A 


Y4.  Tjbqvsi 

LnIBL  the  Anc 

the  eva  times 

Uy  of  God  bai 

^yen.    She  has  ft 

noses  not  to  Tii 

Btearof  sympatl 

ijrd.  T^®'®  ^  ^^ 
he  rose  and  trinffl 
line,  and  its  rays 
U.  The  stream  o 
Ldtheholyina» 
rilowingTobe,WM 
(Dgel  close  by  bis 

generate  the  me« 
md  motioned  bin 

iermitage.    "  *  ° 
Irtte  cbMity  for  t 

1  3.  The  Ancbo 
■his  head,  he  foU< 
■they  went  on  n 
Iboring  town,  an 
Icottage  and  dise 
■the  scene  befor 
lee.  Blocks  o^ 
|by  the  chisel.  Is 
Icupantofthec 

1    4.  The  craf 
nnder  a  canoj 

]  bonches  of  p« 
few  aged  peW 

I  around  the  si 
conversation 
instructing  « 

thankful  *o^ 
privations  wl 


UBOBIID  OF 


DA»IBL  THK  AMOHOBSrr. 


259 


'"'oL  n.t  to  vi.lt  e»rth  ^    ^»,  a»  poor  of  ^ 

L  tear  of  -y»P»'V  •«  leftt^u  «»  ««'b,"  8«id  »•»'«', 
U  There  to  bo  «l»nty  1«^  SS^k™,  before  his  f awnte 
t^ Utrimm^tbeh^pOM^J^^     ^^^W„r 

Vm  .Bd  its  rajB  Ut  up  1>B  <»^  J"™  ^^  grow  into  shape. 
hX  stream  of  BgM  "^"^^f  a^weUed  saBW, 
U  the  holj  man  became  "^"^^ ';„^  the  presence  of  an 

U  dose  by  Ws  side.    »« 'j\.t  the  angd  fortf«  >r; 
Erate  the  messenger  of  «od^  ^  ^rth  from  the 

ht"*..^uo*:r.^x^*-«'«  <»•''-  '»* 

11^  WO"  1^  "^^.^^TertSne.rongh-shapened 
C  ^Icks  of  marble  md  d»bs  otft»«  ^__^  ^^  a^  ^ 
r JUl,  Uy  scattjrji  ronnd^^^ 

fTlhe  craftsman  ^\X^-^-  »«*  ^"""i 

Che.  of  p«ple  8™Pf;iifSdT«ril>pM.  ''TfCtt.t 
few  aged  pen«.«.  ^  "^Zl^,  »  »W«f^  "C  wm 
.romd  the  •'o'*?"^' '"^^d,  ^.s  Edogtas.    Ho  was 


260 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


LEGEND 


5.  It  becam3  ultar,  from  the  paxting  blessings  of  the  poi 
that  they  wcr^  tc  see  him  again  on  the  morrow,  and  farthi 
more,  that  he  was  in  the  habit  each  day  of  gathering  thi 
aronnd  him  and  distributing  among  them  all  his  earnings 
strictly  necessary  to  supply  his  own  simple  wants. 
Anchoret  was  charmed  and  edified  beyond  measure  by  all 
had  seen  and  heard.    He  rejoiced  exceedingly  and  gave  thi 
to  God. 

6.  Here,  then,  was  one  true  friend  of  the  poor.    Bat  o! 
he  began  to  thinJk,  what  a  pity  it  is  that  one  who  is  so  grei 
of  heart  should  be  so  poor  himself,  and  able  to  do  so  littl 
good.    His  charity  is  indeed  unbounded ;  but  his  means,  ali 
are  not  equal  to  his  good-will.    And  straightway  the  hoi 
man  betook  himself  to  prayer,  and  he  begged  of  God  that  tl 
generous  artisan  might  become  rich  and  great ;  for  if  he  wi 
so  liberal  in  a  condition  bordering  upon  indigence,  he  would 
much  the  more  liberal  with  unlimited  resources  subject  to 
command. 

7.  The  angel  appeared  again  to  the  Anchoret.  "Th; 
prayer,  O  Daniel,  is  not  a  wise  one;  it  were  not  well  foi 
Enlogius  to  become  rich."  But  Daniel  could  not  help  think' 
ing  of  the  greater  number  of  poor  who  would  be  relieved,  &n 
of  the  splendid  example  the  vurtnous  and  frugal  Eulogios' 
would  give  to  other  rich  men,  .were  he  indeed  to  become  rich 
himself.  He  continued  to  pray  that  his  wish  might  be 
granted,  and  in  the  fervor  of  his  zeal  he  pledged  hunself  to 
God  as  security  for  the  good  use  his  fellowHSiervant  would 
make  of  wealth  and  power,  were  they  to  become  his  portioo. 

8.  So,  then,  God  granted  the  prayer  of  the  Anchoret,  and 
he  ordained  that  Eulogius,  while  hewing  stone  firom  the  side 
of  a  hill,  displaced  a  mass  of  loose  fragments  and  earth,  which 
took  his  feet  from  under  him  and  threw  hun  upon  the  ground. 
Enlogius  was  terrified ;  but  when  the  noise  was  over,  and  the 
dust  had  cleared  away,  he  rose  and  saw  lying  at  his  feet  a 
huge  lump  of  pure  shhiing  gold.  He  was  rich,  and  that 
neighborhood  saw  him  no  more,  for,  taking  with  him  his 
wonderful  treasure,  he  went  to  the  court  of  Justin  the  Elder, 
and  became  a  great  general  of  the  empire. 


76.  liEGEND  OF 

iBVBRAL  yea 
J  Anchoret  still 
burned  beforb  the 
hosen  for  his  eel 
lower  and  less  fii 
nsit  and  console 
inch. 

2.  The  old  ma 
His  long  hair  and 
"crests,"  he  woi 
break  upon  the 
about  this  season 
|it  seemed  to  1^ 
erected  as  for  a  i 
culprit  summone 
(but  oh !  how 
dresser  Eulogitii 
3.  Daniel,  lil 
called  to  appeal 
he  had  pledged 
promote  the  w< 
of  sins  was  br< 
He  had  nsed 
purchase  the  s 
access  to  his  f 
4.  He  had 
the  chief  of  « 
soldiery  in  ex 
be  rose  above 
and  paiaged 
and    one  H 
the  Empero 
throne. 
6.  Daniel 

bitterly,  he 


LBQBND  OF 


DANIBL  THE  ANOHOBBT. 


261 


et.    "Th; 

t  well  foi 

help  think' 

lieved,  and 

Eologlasi 

ecome  rich' 

might  be 

himself  to 

ant  would 

a  portion. 

ihoret,  and 

tn  the  side 

urth,  which 

be  ground. 

»r,  and  the 

his  feet  a 

and  that 

1  him  his 

the  Elder, 


,  mim,  SHE  AJJOHOBEr-cOT*"^'- 

1 76.  liBflUND  OS  VkSSSL  TBn  ^^  ^^ 

5  Anchoret  rtUl  «:''*™f.„*l„Xi.  eave,  which  he  had 

Ulo.gl>air«Hl,;»«f  ^rftT'ave  .f  toe  about  to 
•creBts,"  he  wodd  say,     «P  ^^^^ed  one  mght, 

Li„»t  this  sewon.  that  D^^        ^^^^^  „  God  »ddedy 

Lr « .^^^-i«7^ert;«^- 
dresser  Eulogiiis.  ^  ^^rrow  and  dismay,  was 
3  Daniel,  likewise,  to  tas  innm  ^^^  ^^^dttct 
Jk  to  appear  by  the  side  of  ^  ^imjor^  j^^rate  zeal  to 
if ^  plSged  Winself  as  security,  m  his^jc  ^^^^^^^^ 

LcesB  to  his  favor.  ^  ^^bery  and  corrnption. 

4   He  had  been  made,  by  mea  ^ntstripped  all  the 

the  chief  of  a  g^«-\«^y;ld ^Tesame  Proportion  as 

!oldiery  in  excesBes  of  every  ^^J^^^^  .^b^ed  the  churches 

the  Emperor  Justmian,  ^" 
too"-  „t  able  to  «.  or  h««  more,  but  we^«.| 


,.*««#»«»!•" 


262 


THE  THIRD  BBADBB. 


and  begged  him  to  bring  Eologins  back  to  his  formfer  d 
dition,  and  to  release  him  from  a  pledge  that  IhA  proved  | 
injurious  for  both  parties  concerrst^d. 

6.  The  angel  bore  to  the  foot  of  the  throne  thv>  prayer 
the  aged  servant  of  Qod,  whose  heart  was  lilled  with  gr^ 
and  bitter  remorse,  and  the  request  it  contained  was  np 
mernifally  granted.    The  conspiracy  in  which  Eulogiu: 
iinnlicated  came  to  be  discovered,  his  accomplices  wtjre  bronglj 
to  justicfc,  and  he  narrowly  escaped  with  his  life. 

7.  .Tl(^  did  penance  for  his  sins,  returned  to  his  furmj 
obscmit./,  worked  again  at  his  craft  as  a  stone-dresser,  an 
in  tlmo  resumed  the  practice  of  alms-giving,  which  he  ha 
changed  in  an  evil  hour  for  deeds  of  rapine  Hud  plunder.  Thii 
the  good  angel  guardian  of  Daniel  the  Anchoret  succeeded  i 
length  in  convincmg  him  that  avarice  but  too  often  harden 
the  heart  of  wealth,  thus  disturbing  the  order  of  Qod's  prov 
deuce  on  earth,  land  that  the  poor  are  not  tmfrequently  th^ 
best  friends  of  the  poor. 


76.  Obildhood's  Yeabs. 

1.  TN  yonder  cot,  along  whose  mouldering  walls, 
•^  In  many  a  fold,  the  mantlmg  woodbme  falls, 
The  village  matron  kept  her  little  school. 
Gentle  of  heart,  yet  knovnng  well  to  rule ; 
Staid  was  the  dame,  and  modest  was  her  mien ; 
Her  garb  was  coarse,  yet  whole,  and  nicely  clean : 
Her  neatly-border'd  cap,  as  lily  ffur. 
Beneath  her  chin  was  pum'd  with  decent  care ; 
And  pendant  ruffles,  of  the  whitest  lawn. 
Of  ancient  make,  her  elbows  did  adorn. 
Faint  with  old  age,  and  dun  were  grown  her  eyes, 
A  pair  of  spectacles  their  want  supplies  ; 
These  does  she  guard  secure,  in  leathern  case. 
From  thoughtless  wights,  in  some  uiweeted  plao*. 


If.ore  first  1 

The  low  vei 

Enter'd  wil 

Though  801 

Hnch  did '. 

When  I  w 

Severe  1 1^ 

To  soothe 

And  oft,  ^ 

Tomyloi 

And  thou 


8.  But  81 
Alert 
First 

A  lit 
And 
HeU 
And 
Tail) 

4.  Oh. 
Of 

Ooi 


childhood's  tbabs. 


268 


former  cd 
d  proved  j 

K  prayer 
I  with  gr^ 
I  was  m 
alogiu- 
wfd  brouglj 

his  furmj 
dresser,  an 
lich  he  ha 
inder.  Thii 
mcceeded  i 
rten  harden 
dod's  prov 
eqnently  thJ 


rails, 
falls, 


men; 
f  clean : 

are; 
er  eyes, 

AiEM 

dplao». 


a. 


Much  did  I  gnew,  on  »         .  ^  t  borne  •, 


^d  oft  she  »«»f  "(^g  n,^,  right  i 

And  as  she  gave  my  uuis 

Talk'd  of  the  honors  of  my  futore  oay 

Oodd  she  have  seen  me  when  revolving  yv« 


.^.,..«.«ni»-- *"■ 


,.-Mi««H«*W*^ 


S64 


THE  TniBD  BBADBB. 


BBl 


Had  oiought  me  deeper  in  the  vale  of  teara, 
Then  had  she  wept,  and  wish'd  m;  wayward  fate 
Had  been  a  lowlier,  an  unletter'd  state ; 
Wish'd  that,  remote  from  worldly  woes  and  strife, 
Unknown,  unheard,  I  might  have  pass'd  through  lifft 

fi.  Where  in  the  bnsy  scene,  by  peace  nnblest, 
Shall  the  poor  wanderer  find  a  place  of  rest  ?     . 
A  lonely  mariner  on  the  stormy  main, 
Without  a  hope,  the  cahns  of  peace  to  gam ; 
Long  toss'd  by  tempests  o'er  the  world's  wide  shore^ 
When  shall  his  spirit  rest,  to  toil  no  more  ? 
Not  till  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  shall  lave 
The  sandy  surface  of  his  unwept  graye. 
Childhood',  to  thee  I  turn  from  life's  alarms, 
Serenest  season  of  perpetual  calms, — 
Turn  with  delight,  and  bid  the  passions  cease, 
And  joy  to  thmk  with  thee  I  tasted  peace. 
Sweet  reign  of  innocence,  when  no  crime  defiles, 
But  each  new  object  brings  i»ttendalit  smiles ; 
When  future  evils  never  haunt  the  sight. 
But  all  is  pregnant  with  unmixt  delight ; 
To  thee  I  turn,  from  riot  and  from  noise, — 
Turn  to  partake  of  more  congenial  joys. 

6   'Neath  yonder  elm,  that  stands  upon  the  moor. 
When  the  clock  spoke  the  hour  of  labor  o'er. 
What  clamorous  throngs,  what  uappy  groups  were  seen, 
In  various  postures  scatt'ring  o'er  the  green  I 
Some  shoot  the  marble,  others  join  the  chase 
Of  self-made  stag,  or  run  the  emulous  race ; 
While  others,  seated  on  the  dap()led  grass. 
With  doleful  tales  the  light-wing'd  minutes  pass. 
Well  I  remember  how,  with  gesture  starch'd, 
A  band  of  soldiers,  oft  with  pride  we  march'd ; 
For  banners,  to  a  tall  ash  we  did  bind 
Our  handkerchiefs,  flapping  to  the  whistling  wind ; 
And  for  our  warlike  arms  we  sought  the  mead, 


And  g«M  ^^^ 
Then,  in  nncot 
We  storm'd  bc 

1.  Pleased  with ' 
To  set  her  wl 
And  o'er  her 
To  view  our  i 
Stm  OS  she  1« 
With  its  bel< 
■When  tired ' 
(For  out  of 
And  wondei 
For  who  CO 
Her  sheets, 
To  strangei 
Though  we 
How  'twas 


I   11    one  day  ! 

one  in  a  ^o<*^ 
"An  object 

teaches  the  pi 

any  thmg  whi 

object;  so  is 

2.  "Alee^' 

diatinguish  a 

braaches,  its 

and  the  usee 

luse  our  BenB( 

"  I  shouW 

ffood  as  to  1 

^  8.  "Iv^ 


264 

BEKAKFAflT-T^BLB  80IBS0B. 

A  .««a«i  we  made  of  brittle  reed ; 
And  gona  and  bj^mb  we  wm        ^^  ^^^^^ 

Then,  in  uncouth  away,  out 

We  Btonn'd  some  ruin'd  pig-Bty  »r 

;,    -fh  our  Kay  diBports,  the  dame  was  wont 
,.  Pleased^th  o«  gay^  P  ^.^^t 

'^"  r L^' h«  ^tS  would  often  peer, 

rrrgria^^^^ 

And  wonder  at  »>« 'Wt-^^  Garnet 

r„,  ,ho  eodd  m^  ^S^Z^'i  «i*  pride 
Her  Bheets,  he'  to™' '^^  testifled ; 
To  rtrwger.,  "t""^" '"^"^o^er  mneh,  to  troth. 

-f7.  BMAOATO-TABtK  Somoit, 


Iw^ 


9»  a«^!«l  Ijuct  to  ber  mother, 
^HAT  to  an  ''''Jf\^"'..itave  b^n  re«Ung  abort 
W    on.  daj  after  ^'Vf'^.^^.^X,  what  it  r<^'' 
o„e  to  a  book,  and  I «»  "?*  "^"^other,  "is  »  !«»»» '^t 

toacUlts  l«»T-'?i^^^     Olj;et  lemons  t«>chn»  to 
^  the  nwB  made  of  vte  wooa         j      ^  ^^^^  „ 

T.reh'r.ien:C'o::?oV'?—  '"^»"  - 

^J^Xw^raTdJ^huy.  «».  condition,  >^^ 


...'.M'tHftll'*"^' 


..«.,,.ifrti.<m>!f^ 


-«s«WP»» 


Me 


THXC  TUIBU  JEtJBADBB. 


Ii,  thttt  70a  give  me  your  careful  attention.    Ton  must  listed 
to  me  with  your  ears,  and  gke  heed  to  me  with  your  mind." 

"  I  will  do  so,  my  dear  mother/'  said  Lucy,  "  and  be  much 
obliged  to  you  besideti.  What  object  will  you  teach  me 
about  V> 

4.  "  Here  is  the  breakfast-table/'  said  her  mother,  "  with 
the  remains  of  the  breakfast  upon  it,  with  cups  and  saucers, 
poons,  plates,  and  knives  and  forks.  Here  is  substance 
enough  for  many  object  lessons.  Suppose  I  give  you  some 
lessons  in  the  science  of  the  breakfastrtable.  And,  first  of 
all,  let  us  see  what  it  is  that  all  these  things  rest  upon  and  are 
held  up  by." 

"It  is  a  table." 

6.  "  Very  good.  And  the  table  is  made  of  mahogany. 
Mahogany  is  the  wood  of  a  tree  which  grows  in  the  West 
Indies,  in  Central  America,  and  in  many  parts  of  South 
America.  Men  go  into  the  woods  and  cut  down  the  trees, 
just  as  lumbermen  go  into  the  woods  of  Maine  and  cut  down 
pme-trees.  They  are  then  floated  down  to  the  searcoast,  and 
shipped  to  Europe  or  this  country. 

6.  "This  is  very  hard  work ;  the  men  who  do  it  are  obliged 
to  go  into  woods  and  swamps,  where  it  is  very  hot,  and  often 
unhealthy. 

*'  Mahogany,  as  you  see,  is  a  beautiful  wood,  and  takes  a 
fine  polish.  It  was  introduced  into  England  about  the  end  of 
the  seventeenth  centroy.* 

7.  "  A  captain  of  a  West  Indian  ship  brought  home  some 
logs,  which  he  had  put  on  board  his  yessel  simply  as  ballast ; 
that  is,  as  weight  to  make  it  steady.  He  gave  them  to  his 
brother,  a  physidan,  who  was  buildmg  a  house,  supposing 
they  wight  be  useful  to  him ;  but  the  carpenters  would  not 
do  any  thbg  with  the  wood,  saying  that  it  was  too  hard  for 
their  tools. 

8.  "  Some  time  after,  the  wife  of  this  physician  was  in  want 
of  a  candle-box,  and  Ami  told  the  cabinet-maker  to  make  it 
out  of  one  of  the  logs  bf  mahogany  which  had  been  thrown 

■  ■■■III!  I  I        !■■        II    I  ■    I  II       11  LI    II  ■■-■■I.I,       l..,MB«  ■!  I    ■■■■■■»■■■— !■■         ■!  H     IM 

*  2nU  MMftlMfitA  Mfi<«f^  is  the  f«riod  between  1600  and  1701. 


bbh 

iie     He  was  un 

ould  spoU  his  tooh 

J  was  made  and 

Lician's  new  hoti 

9  "Al^dyofrt 
todfrom  this  tin 
LdedtUUtbecw 
1  <«  Articles  of  m 
Ud  wood,  which 
Ibcen  obviated  by 

]  10.  "  A.  log  0* 
called  veneers,  b; 
Ued  upon  pine, 
Uogaay  table, 
covering  of  malw 

'thanifltj«!« 

cloth.    Thte  18 

plant  caUed  Am 

n.  "Yes,  ft 

afieldongrfttt 

pretty  blue  flo^ 

a  piece  of  po« 

wreck,  and  ^* 

5'atber  told  m 

those  flowers. 

^2   ••lorn 

what  yonr  fi 

plants  are  p 

stalks  are  « 

bleached,  nn 

hair.   These 

into  cloth. 

13.  "Yt 

xmiform,  0 

wrought  i 

genlons  tn 

"Flax 


BEEAKm-^-^^BLK  BOI«HOE. 


•261 


I coTenng of  in»iioB»  '     ^..    Then  next  «T»V,  ^„  » 
I  tlian  if  ft  wre  »U  f»'''J^„     Limn  to  pwdncea  i" 

■   tbose  flowers »  ^       that  you  T««^«T^deftd  the 

12   "  I  «m  very  glad,  my  ««    »  ^^^^^  are  deiw,  ^ 

hair.    in«Bei»     r  ♦aWe^loth  is  not 

^ught  into  It.    TM  .„„,«.  thew 

rl°^rm«ch  taiBed  to  .«  country  •, 


"^S^JP- 


268 


BB 


THE  TUIRD   HEADER. 


are  covered 


many  manafactories  of  linen  here.  They  raise  it  ^  in  gre«»o^»  *  «oinxnon 
qnantities  in  England,  Ireland,  Belgium,  and  parts  of  QeletU^'  ^  Q\^\[ar^ 
many ;  and  it  is  manufacbured  in  Scotland,  England,  the  norflio"'^®  ,|^. »  ^^^s 


ci!y.    The  finest 

are  nw^de  partly 

been  burned,  po« 

•ilhig  materia 

otpasteordougl 

or  dishes,  and  It 

^  accustomed  t 

3  "They^se 

an  ov 


of  Ireland,  and  Germany. 

14.  "  This  table-cloth  was  brought  in  a  ship  from  Lireil 
pool,  in  England." 

"  You  said  just' now  that  the  flax  was  bleached.    What 
that  ?" 

"  To  bleach  is  to  make  white.  The  natural  color  of  flax  iil 
a  kind  of  brown,  like  the  brown  Imen  thread  I  have  in  m;] 
work-basket ;  and  it  has  to  be  whitened  by  art. 

15.  "  Most  linen  fabrics  are  wiiitened  after  they  are  woven.  _ 
It  used  to  be  done  by  spreading  the  cloth  upon  the  gross,  Bp^*  Hfl  andson 
in  the  sun,  and  frequently  wetting  it;  but  now  the  cloth ■  8^**®*^', -jTrr^^^^j  d, 

is  dipped  into  a  kind  of  liquid  which  takes  the  color  out  |     *;.. i^nV 

at  once. 

16.  "  Now  we  hare  the  table  set,  and  the  cloth  spread ;  -vre 
will  next  see  what  there  is  on  the  table.  Here  are  the  coffee- 
pot, the  teapot,  the  water-pot,  the  cream-jug,  and  the  8uga^ 
bowl.    What  do  you  think  these  are  made  of?" 

IT.  "They  are  made  of  silver,  I  suppose.  They  look  like 
the  silver  half-dollar  father  gave  me  once." 

"  Your  answer  is  a  natural  one,  my  dear  Lucy.  Older  pe^ 
sons  than  yon  judge  of  things  by  their  outward  L/pearance. 
These  are  not  made  of  silver,  though  they  look  like  it. 

18.  "  Rich  people  have  them  of  silver,  but  ours  are  made 
of  a  white  metal,  commonly  called  German  silver,  covered 
over,  or  plated,  with  real  silver.  German  silver  is  made  of 
copper,  zinc,  and  nickel ;  all  of  which  are  metals.  Articles  of 
this  kind  are  made  in  great  numbers  in  the  city  of  Birmingham, 
in  England.    They  are  also  made  in  our  country." 


78.  Breakfabt-Tablb  Soienob — coniinued. 

LET  us  next  go  to  the  cups  and  saucers,  and  the  plates. 
They  are  of  the  same  substance,  and  of  a  white  color ; 
but  they  may  be  of  other  colors.    Our  dinner-plates,  yon 


i«  xf  yon  look 
the  surface  is 
something  lik« 
Bubstance  ©ad 

water,  and  ^ 
niftkeaUqtudl 

require  gla^^^f 
g   uXheyfl 

glaring  make; 

u  Earthen* 
France,  CWi 

ft  plafie  in  J 

cers  which  1 

or  flowers,  • 

ft.  "The 

at  them,  i* 

day  and  fl: 

••Thete 

handle, 
iron.    Ir< 

now  see  i 


BEBAWABT-TABLE  BOHfiNOB. 


260 


re  woven, 
he  grass, 
the  cloth 
lolor  out 

*ad;  ve 
^e  coffee* 
le  saga^ 

ook  like 

Ider  pe^ 
earance. 

• 

re  made 
covered 
nade  of 
tides  of 
ingham, 


plates, 
color  J 
s,  yoit 


r  3.  "  AU  tod.  of  f'*'"^"!  ^^rttaie.  cUed  potceWo, 
Lt  The  «M.t  .ort.,  '''J^'' "^.'trutot  BtoM.  whloh  tare 
Cmad.  partly  of  ctay,  "f^'^^;  „7powd.r. 

^  .constomed  to  it.  ^       tape  It.    The"  »  " 

8.  ..They .»« » '"f'^jj Ll  «hea  it  come.  o.  it  1. 

'  i-I  What  do  yoti  mean  by  P»»°;  "^    ,„„  wlU  see  that 
t.-H  y«  look  at  a  e.p,  <"  P'^^ti'^^r^iiied  «.d  hrig". 

:::r:'at^-*"Ser^-^-«^--^"'"'' 

require  glaring  ftre  dipped.  ^^^^^^tedagi^.   The 

Urhletr^oTXSl  paint^-^""-""""" 

o'r^«lK;a^w^-Sl^,t»^» 

»t«.em,it«»<««taP««»W«*»'»^ 


2T0 


THE  THIBD   BEADEB. 


is  pat  into  a  furnace  and  melted,  and  the  iron  is  drawn  off  in 
a  liquid  form.    Iron  is  the  most  useful  ofjnetals,  and  it 
found  in  nearly  all  parts  of  the  world,      y^ 

8.  "  Steel  is  made  by  putting  bars  of  Iron  into  a  close  box] 
with  fine-powdered  charcoal,  and  then  heating  the  whole  reryl 
hot.  The  yapor  of  the  charcoal  acts  in  a  peculiar  way  npoui 
the  iron,  and  makes  it  harder,  more  elastic,  and  less  liable  to 
mst.  Steel,  also,  when  struck,  sounds,  or  rings,  louder  than  | 
iron,  and  it  takes  a  brighter  polish. 

9.  "  The  handles  of  knives  are  made  of  ivory,  bone,  horn, 
or  wood.  Ours  are  made  of  bone.  Knives  are  made  in  Eng- 
land, Germany,  and  also  in  our  own  country.  Sheffield,  in 
England,  is  a  place  where  many  are  made. 

"Do  you  see  any  thing  else  on  the  table  that  is  made  of 
iron?" 

10.  "  No,  mother,  I  do  not." 

' '  There  is  something  else,  though  yon  do  not  perceive  it. 
This  waiter  is  made  of  iron.  It  is  made  of  very  thin  iron, 
called  sheet  iron,  which  is  firjt  painted,  and  then  varnished. 
A  great  deal  of  ware  of  this  kind  is  made  in  Birmingham,  m 
England.  This  is  a  large  and  rich  tlty,  and  the  people  are 
mostly  employed  in  various  manufactures  of  metal. 

11.  "They  make  buttons,  buckles,  thimbles,  pencil-cases, 
steel  pens,  teapots,  trays,  cake-baskets,  and  many  other  simi- 
lar articles. 

"  The  spoons  are  made  of  silver, — real  silver.  Silver  is  a 
metal,  which  is  dug  out  of  the  ground.  It  is  one  of  the  pre- 
cious metals,  so  called  ;  it  comes  next  in  value  to  gold  and 
platinum,  which  latter  is  rarely  used. 

12.  "  Money  is  coined  from  gold  and  silver.  Silver  is  used 
for  many  purposes ;  and  various  beautiful  and  useful  things 
are  made  from  it.  It  comes  mostly  from  Mexico  and  South 
America. 

"  Havmg  now  disposed  of  the  table,  it<?  covering,  and  th 
furnishing  of  the  table,  let  us  proceed  to  consider  what  we 
have  had  to  eat. 

13.  "Our  breakfast  has  consisted  of  tea,  coffee,  sugar,  bread, 
butter,  milk,  boiled  ^;gs,  and  baked  apples. 


"Tea  is  the  I 

1  Japan.    I*  }* 

gathered  twice  , 

'  are  dried  a  litti 

and  afterwardd 

There  are  mvoi 

«eat  claflses, « 

14.  "Tiicsel 

«« The  Chine 

80.    Itwaair 

it  is  now  ter 

^  great  manj 

^thtea.    It 
of  lead. 

15.  "Coff« 

in  Arabia,  ai 

iugh,  and  its 

cherry.    A.t 

sun,  and  the 

rieaareagai 

-^eiL  we  ^ 

toasted,  grc 

from  Mochi 

16.  "Te 

-whicb  nnci 

were  when 

coffee  is  a 

you  ptom 

hard  woT( 

n.  "1 

andinftiB 

««yott 
but  yon 
tides  of 
nerves, t 

are  not 
Qgedon 

18. 


BBSA&FA8T-TABLB  BOIENOB. 


271 


^'ni  off  ia 
and  it 

I  close  bo  J 
whole  verjl 
V^y  npoaf 
P  liable  to  I 
pder  thaof 

'^e,  hoTD, 

inEng. 

^ffleld,  in 

nuadeof , 


We  it 
[hin  iron, 
inufihed. 
rhain,  in 
ople  are 

3-cases, 
}r  fiimi. 

er  18  a 
lepre. 
i  and 

nsed 
hinga 
oath 

th 
we 


a^ 


"Tea  is  the  leaf  of  a  shrab  which  grows  in  China  and 
Japan.  It  is  from  fonr  to  siz  feet  high.  The  leaves  are 
gathered  twice  a  year ;  in  the  spring  and  the  antnmn.  They 
are  dried  a  little  in  the  snn,  then  laid  on  plates  of  hot  iron, 
and  afterwards  rolled  on  mats  with  the  pahn  of  the  hand. 
There  are  many  varieties  of  tea,  but  they  are  divided  into  two 
great  classes,  black  tea  and  green  tea. 

14.  "  These  do  not  come  from  the  same  kmd  of  plant. 

"  The  Ghmese  are  very  fond  of  tea,  and  always  have  been 
so.  It  was  introdnoed  into  Enrope  about  the  year  1660 ;  and 
it  is  now  very  mnch  nsed,  especifdly  in  England  and  America. 
A  great  many  ships  come  from  GMna  which  are  entirely  filled 
with  tea.  It  is  packed  in  wooden  chests,  which  have  a  lining 
of  lead. 

15.  "  Coffee  is  the  berry  of  an  evergreen  shrab  which  grows 
in  Arabia,  and  the  East  and  West  Indies.  It  is  abont  ten  feet 
high,  and  its  berry,  when  ripe,  is  red,  and  not  very  nnlike  a 
cherry.  At  the  proper  tune  the  fhiit  is  gathered,  dried  in  the 
Bon,  and  the  berries  extracted  by  the  help  of  mills.  The  ber- 
ries are  again  dried^^cked  in  bags,  and  sent  away  in  vessels. 
When  we  wart  to  make  coffee,  the  berries,  or  grains,  are 
roasted,  ground,  and  boiled  in  water.  The  finest  coffee  comes 
from  Mocha,  in  Arabia. 

16.  "  Tea  is  made  by  steeping  the  leaves  in  boiling  water, 
which  uncurls  them,  and  makes  them  look  larger  than  they 
were  when  put  in.  Thus  tea  is  properly  an  in/itsion.  But 
coffee  is  a  deeoction,  because  it  is  made  by  boiling.  Now  will 
you  promise  to  remember  the  distinction  between  these  two 
hard  words  ?" 

It.  "I  wiU  try.  Decoction  is  when  you  boil  any  thing, 
and  infusion  is  when  you  only  steep  it." 

"  Your  father  drinks  coffee  for  breakfast,  and  I  drink  tea ; 
but  you  drink  milk.  Tea  and  coffee  both  belong  to  those  ar- 
ticles of  food  which  are  called  stimtUants.  They  act  upon  the 
nerves,  and  produce  a  slight  exhilaration  or  excitement.  They 
are  not  good  for  little  boys  and  girls ;  and  th^y  should  be 
nsed  only  in  moderation  by  grown  persons. 

18.  "When  your  father  comes  home  at  night,  tired  with 


272 


THE  THIRD    BBADEB. 


his  day's  work,  a  cap  of  tea  refreshes  him ;  bat  if  ho  were 
drink  too  mach,  or  drink  it  too  strong,  it  would  keep 
awake,  and  he  would  have  a  headache  the  next  momi 
Many  persons  injure  themselves  by  drinking  too  much  stroi 
tea  and  cofifee.    ^  '  • 

19.  "  Sugar  is  the  produce  of  a  plant  called  the  sugar-cam 
which  grows  in  the  West  Indies,  and  many  other  warm  eoi 
tries.    It  is  about  ten  feet  high,  and  about  two  inches  m  di< 
ameter ;  it  looks  a  good  deal  like  our  Indian  com.    Whesl 
ripe,  the  canes  are  full  of  a  rich,  sweet  juice. 

20.  "  They  are  then  cut  down,  and  next  crushed  in  a  mill , 
the  liquid  that  runs  out  is  boiled  away,  and  a  little  lime-water 
is  mixed  with  it,  to  help  to  clarify  it,  that  is,  make  it  clear. 

"When  this  liquid  cools,  it  settles  down  in  the  form  of 
brown  sugar ;  and  the  liquid  that  runs  off  is  molasses.  Brown 
sugar,  which  is  sometimes  called  raw  sugar,  is  refined  and  pu- 
rified, and  thus  turned  into  loaf-sugar.  To  do  this,  it  is  boiled 
in  lune-water,  and  the  heated  liquor  is  cleansed,  or  purified, 
and  then  poured  into  conical  moulds ;  and  when  it  cools,  it 
appears  in  the  form  of  a  loaf  of  hard  white  sugar. 

21.  "  Sugar  is  made  from  other  substances  than  the  juice 
of  the  sugar-cane.  In  France,  the  juice  of  the  beet-root  is 
much  used  for  this  purpose.  Sugar  has  also  been  obtamed 
from  grapes,  and  from  liquorice  root.  In  our  country,  much 
maple-sugar  is  made  by  boiling  down  the  juice  of  a  kind  of 
maple-tree." 


79.  Breakfast-Table  Soienoe — cotu^/uded. 

YOU  will  observe  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  bread  on  the 
table ;  one  is  brown  and  the  other  is  white ;  but  they  are 
)oth  made  of  wheat.  Wheat  is  the  growth  of  a  plant  which 
ooks  something  like  a  very  tall  blade  of  grass ;  when  it  is 
ripe,  it  is  cut  down,  and  spread  upon  the  floor  of  a  bam,  and 
then  beaten  with  a  wooden  stick  called  a  flail,  which  causes 
the  wheat  to  drop  out. 


2   ««Ittbeni 
big'a«  apple-seel 

i«  These  g^aui 
This  is  done  byl 

er  of  ^1^<^VJ 
brown  bread^ 

fromtbeimll-' 

tliTOUgba^er 
ijhe  outer  M 
vrben  ground,] 
tbia  bran  is  t< 
wbo  are  no^ 
bealtby  for  tl 
4.  «'1jiot 
ia  ^ibteb  sta 
Btirred  abot 
vater  and  t 
put  into Jw 
^  5  ««-Wb( 

is  porous,  < 
produced  t 

into  tt^  ^^ 

6.  ''Y* 

from  bop« 

there  are 

stances  \ 

yeast  ac 

explain 

20  int« 

^  1.  " 

dersta!: 

leaven, 

means 

At  tin 

8. 

thing 

brea 


,E«AKFA8WA«L«  SOnSSOK. 


278 


brown  bread  is  made  of  ttour  m 

from  the  mm.  ^.  ^^de  of  flour  whicli  has  been  passea 

T  «  The  white  bread  is  ^^de  ^t  n  sometimes  caUed. 

Tteu  pound,  a  '■"-ri'n.^WtSTt  ^  not.    ^1  f  """^ 

^r^r-^to  n«ue  .«aa.  tue «- ^^  ^^s^:^!:; 

Btirred  about,  for  a  cons  perfectly.    Then  yeas 

^•.   I^f  DouKhwhichhasUenii^edm  j^        dlj^ad 


o.     " ,     i.  9    T  have  eaxe"  »"  e-  - 

bread  «!>»«'"* -*^  m- 


274 


THE  THIRD  READEB. 


**  Yon  are  right,  my  dear.  Bread  is  sometimes  made  of 
rye,  of  barley,  of  oats,  and  of  Indian  com.  The  bread  of 
which  you  speak  is  made  of  rye  floor  and  Indian  meal.  Bye 
is  a  grain  of  the  same  kind  as  wheat. 

9.  "  Indian  com  is  the  fmit  of  a  plant  which  we  call  by  the 
same  name,  and  is  also  termed  maize.  It  grows  in  the  form 
of  yellow  grams,  much  larger  than  those  of  wheat,  which  are 
let  round  what  is  called  the  cob.  Bye  and  Indian  bread  is 
very  comnon  among  New  England  farmers. 

10.  "  1  have  now  told  you  about  every  thing  we  hove  had 
to  eat  for  our  breakfast,  except  the  milk  and  cream,  the  but- 
ter, the  baked  apples,  and  the  eggs.  Milk,  as  you  know,  is 
drawn  from  the  cow ;  you  have  often  seen  them  milk  the  cows 
at  your  grandfather's. 

''  Butter  is  made  of  cream,  and  cream  comes  from  milk. 
Milk,  when  first  drawn  from  the  cow,  is  composed  of  two 
parts,  one  of  which  is  watery  and  sweet,  and  the  other  oily, 
^fter  it  has  been  allowed  to  stand  some  time,  the  cream  rises 
to  the  top. 

11.  "This  is  the  oily  part  of  the  milk,  audit  rises  because  it 
is  lighter  than  the  rest.  The  cream  is  taken  off,  or  skimmed 
from  the  top,  and  put  into  a  long,  round-shaped  box,  called  a 
chum.  Here  it  is  shaken  and  stirred  by  a  handle,  and  in  a 
short  time  the  watery  particles  of  the  cream  separate  from 
those  which  are  oily.  The  watery  part  is  called  buttermilk. 
and  is  commonly  given  to  the  pigs;  the  oily  part  is  but- 
ter, and  is  given  to  good  little  boys  and  good  little  girls, 
like  you. 

12.  "  The  apple  is  a  fruit  which  grows  upon  a  tree,  and  is 
gathered  in  the  autumn.  A  collection  of  apple-trees  is  called 
an  orchard.  You  have  sometunes  been  into  your  grandfather's 
orchard  and  helped  to  pick  up  apples.  There  are  many  kinds 
of  apples ;  some  are  sweet  and  some  are  sour. 

13.  "  Bweet  apples  are  commonly  used  for  baking,  and  sour 
ones  for  making  pies.  The  apple  is  a  very  valuable  fruit,  and 
many  persons  in  our  country  support  themselves  by  raising 
and  selling  apples. 

"  Eggs  are  produced  or  laid,  by  hens.   You  know  how  fond 


l,ouateofgo)^gj 

eggs-    "^ 

^ng-^ird'8  eggj 
«« Att  egg  ^ 

^ay  bereaf tet 
of  a  ben.  yo* 

the  yollf .  *^*  * 
the  vrl»t«- 
15.  "T^ete 

featbers,  or  ft< 

Bit  upon  It  a  J 

it,  a»4  turns 

runs  about,  a 

«» Ibis  19  t 

taU  turkey  ' 

vbenyouY* 
^agxuficeut 

MountaittS. 

16.  "'^ 

vforltB.    ^ 

tbi»g  tTaat 

tbattbe^ 

em  but  w< 

«« Aud 

there  be 

n. " 

««Yer 
of  your 

tree.   ^ 

or  p^aVi 

batvrl 

in  Asi 

18. 

ftuesi 

ftotn 


BBE^AST-TABLE  80IE«CE. 


275 


AUtads  ^.,  „, out  head.  »*»'"^ 

the  yolk,  .»d  "o™*  "  *  '  .  ,    V,  IVke  bones,  or 

it,  and  turns  it  w  creature.  ,  ^^     That 

„»g,dfleent  e»gle  tW  »  ^^^^.^^ 

"r*^"ws  property  "'  *^  ''^rtT;  ttot  >«■ "  "  T"; 
^t;     We  Bometimes  call  it  ^/J^f^^  „<,t  know  how .  « 
works,    vv  e  »"  „„aet8t»i>d.    "'"""„  into  a  chick- 

ttog  ttat  wo  er^'lC's  body  converW  «i  egg  »to 

there  be  any  ^^J^^,*^ /  ^^^ere  are  the  matB  and  the  sa  ^^ 

1 T    » Yes,  mother,  iu«^  .      ^  j^aKe  suci  g*' 

u^  .V  trie  •  and  I  am  glad  '^^^^  ^^  ^^^^es  of  the  palm- 

-  r..^et:^n:«a.  -;to:Lffa  sS-'^'St 
■'■^'    ;     A  o^rifl  01  potash,  rotasu  i  jaatenalfl  tor 

rtl^s^trplltsaud  vegetables,    The 


^rf^'^^t. 


276 


THE  THIRD   KBADBR. 


forming  glass  are  pat  into  largo  pots,  and  melted,  ijitil  it  be- 
comes a  red  hot  liquid  substance.  Then  the  workman  dipg 
the  end  of  a  long  iron  tube  into  it,  and  takes  up  a  bit,  which 
he  first  rolls  on  a  polished  iron  plate,  to  make  it  smooth  on 
the  outside.  Then  he  blows  into  the  other  end  of  the  iron 
tche,  and  the  hot  glass  swells  and  expands,  and  it  is  shaped 
into  the  required  form.  In  this  way  bottles  and  decanters 
are  inade. 

19.  "  Salt-ceUars  and  other  thmgs  of  the  kind  are  shaped 
in  a  mould.  The  finer  and  costlier  articles  of  glass  are  cut. 
This  is  done  by  grinding  the  surface  with  small  wheels  of  stone, 
metal,  or  wood.  The  glass  is  held  up  to  the  wheel.  A  small 
stream  of  water  is  kept  continually  running  on  the  glass,  to 
prevent  its  getting  too  hot.  Friction,  or  the  rubbing  of  one 
thing  against  another,  produces  heat. 

"  The  process  of  making  glass  is  very  curious,  and  the  arti- 
cles made  are  very  beautiful.  One  of  these  days  you  shall  go 
with  me  to  a  glass  manufactory. 

20.  **  Salt  is  formed  from  sea-water,  which  has,  as  you  know, 
a  salt  taste.  It  is  pumped  into  shallow  pans,  or  reservoirs, 
and  evaporated  by  the  heat  of  the  sun.  Water  is  said  to  be 
evaporated  when  it  is  dried  up,  or  taken  away,  by  the  air. 
The  water  in  time  passes  off,  and  leaves  the  salt  at  the  bot- 
tom.   This  is  afterwards  boiled,  skimmed,  purified,  and  dried 

21.  "  In  many  parts  of  our  country  there  are  springs  of  salt- 
water, a  great  vrej  off  f^om  the  sea.  Salt  is  made  from  the 
water  of  these  spi^ngs  m  the  same  way  as  from  that  of  the 
sea.  Salt  is  also  dug  out  of  the  earth,  in  a  solid  form,  in 
many  parts  of  the  world.    This  is  called  rock  salt. 

"  Thus,  my  dear  Lucy,  I  have  told  you  all  about  the  broak- 
fast-table,  and  the  various  objects  upon  it.  I  hope  you  will 
remember  it." 

22.  "  I  will  try  to  remember  it,  mother." 

"  And  now  I  want  to  make  one  or  two  remarks  upon  what 
we  have  been  talking  about.  I  wish  you  to  form  the  habit  of 
reflecting  as  well  as  of  observing ;  that  is,  I  want  you  to  think 
about  what  you  see,  and  hear,  and  read.  You  will  notice  that 
the  articles  of  which  we  have  spoken  have  come  from  all  parts 


l{  the  vo^^^' 

L  sugar  from 

'g  thetable^ll 

23.  ••  A.nd  tfl 

prepare  our  l^tl 

L    The  iron  <J 

ffirst  d«l^^*^; 

Vumace^y™^j 
Letofwortanei^ 

ted  into  the  M 

24.  ••  A.^^Jj 

jertoralBet^l 

{actuTed,tlaei 

theabipan^i 
VfaUthepeotf 

our  breaUfas^. 

ft  considerabW 

25.  "TH 

caUed  a  etatj 

laws,  and  o« 

culture,  cot« 

^orlisforaV 

Ittdiau  gvrv, 
fish,  a  |iant 
gourd.' 

^  26.  "■^* 

girl." 
K  That 

Nvaut  you 

caused  yc 

blesslugs 

clotUug> 

ftud  boo 

2^" 

«'  M 
go  to  « 
that  t1 


BREAKFAST-TABLE  SOIVNCE.  277 

tkman  d'  W  ^®  ^^^^^'    ^^  ^^^  ^^  fi'oi^  China,  the  coffee  from  Java, 
'  ^^'t  wIu'^P'®  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^  "WeBt  Indies,  the  mahogany  from  Honda- 
I smooth     W^*  ^^®  tablecloth  frohi  Europe, 
k  the  ir^'^u  2^-  "■^'id  then  a  great  number  of  persona  have  helped  to 


the  iron  ^ 

is  shaned  V^'^P^'^  ^^  breakfast,  and  oar  breakfast-table  fomitore,  for 
decanter  1^'  ^®  ^^^  ^^  which  the  knives  are  made,  for  instance,  was 
"first  dag  oat  of  the  earth  by  miners  ;  then  it  was  melted  in  a 
e  shaned  I  ''™^^*^  ^7  firemen ;  then  it  was  converted  into  steel  by  another 
>8  are  cat  V^^  ^^  workmen ;  then  the  steel  was  made  into  blades,  and  fit- 
ted into  the  handles  by  catlers. 

24.  "  And  so  of  the  table-cloth.  First,  we  have  the  farm- 
er to  raise  the  flax,  the  workmen  to  prepare  it  to  be  manu- 
factared,  the  men  and  the  machines  to  spin  and  weave  it,  and 
the  ship  and  the  sailors  to  bring  it  to  this  coantry.  Indeed, 
if  all  the  people  who  have  directly  and  indirectly  helped  to  get 
our  breakfast  for  as  were  brought  together,  they  would  form 
a  considerable  village. 

25.  "This  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  living  in  what  is 
called  a  state  of  civilization ;  that  is,  a  state  in  which  we  have 
laws,  and  books,  and  trades,  and  arts,  and  sciences,  agri- 
culture, conmierce,  and  manufactures.  In  su"^  <»  state  each 
works  for  all,  and  all  works  for  each.  Had  yoa  been  a  little 
Indian  girl,  your  breakfast  would  have  been  a  bit  of  broiled 
fish,  a  handful  of  parched  corn,  and  some  water  out  of  a 
gourd." 

26.  "Mother,  I  am  veiy  glad  I  am  not  a  little  Indian 
girl." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  was  coming  to,  my  dear  child.  I 
want  you  to  be  not  only  glad,  but  grateful  to  God,  who  has 
caused  you  to  be  born  in  a  situation  where  you  enjoy  fto  many 
blessings;  where  you  can  have  convenient  and  comfortable 
clothing,  and  abundance  of  healthy  food,  and  schools  to  go  to, 
and  books  to  read." 

27.  "  And  a  dear  good  mother,  who  tells  me  every  thing  I 
want  to  know,"  said  Lucy. 

"  And  now  it  is  time,"  said  her  mother,  "  to  get  ready  to 
go  to  school.  I  hope  I  have  not  filled  your  little  head  so  full 
that  there  will  be  no  room  for  your  lessons." 


'  0^  stone, 
A  small 
'  fir^ass,  to 
fS  of  one 

the  arti- 
shall  go 

a  know, 
ervoira', 
id  to  be 
the  air. 
ie  bot- 
dried 
'fsalt- 
mthe 
'f  the 
n»,  in 

oalt- 
will 


lat 
of 

it 


278 


THE  THIRD  BEADER. 


»\*» 


80.  TiBBD  OF  Plat. 


1.  rriRED  of  play !  Tired  of  play  I 

A  What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day ! 
The  birds  are  silent,  and  so  is  the  bee ; 
The  son  is  creeping  np  steeple  and  tree ; 
The  doYes  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 
And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  Igavei  | 
•    Twilight  gathers,  the  day  is  done — 
How  hast  thou  spent  it— restless  one  I 

2.  Playing  ?    But  what  hast  thou  done  beside 
To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide  ? 

What  promise  of  morn  is  left  unbroken  ? 
What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken  ? 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven  ? 
How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 
What  hast  thou  leam'd  by  field  and  hill. 
By  greenwood  path,  and  by  fi'nging  rill  f 


OlslE  of  t 
where  \ 
Scotland, 
magmftcettt 
most  beaut 
persona  of 
interesting 
by.gone  aj 
a.  "M< 
vast  aiad 


MELUOBK   ABBKY. 


27S 


vei| 


,.  There wiU eome » ,f «'» l^A  1 
That  wiU  find  thee  tured— but  nor.  m  v  j 

With  drooptog  limb,  and  »«W«g  ^•. 
Ld  wteh  the  »h»do«.  woold  f»8tei  cteep, 
l^To»gtogotothyq»let.teop. 
.  OT.ll«OTe  it  then  if  thine  whing  brow 

*•  wt  X  fro-n  »ta  »»*  *r, "  ■"" ' 
wtufortheeifthyUpconldt* 

U  to  I«rtott'  epmng  to  wretched»»»- 

",  A  taunbled  thy  he«rt  '^J  P^^^^ 
If  Natttte-B  voice,  have  Bpoken  to  tuee 
xffXhep  holy  meanisg.  eloqnently- 

^^wtoTh.  night  rteal.  on, «  now, 

^J'^bring  relief  *»  *7  -^K^J^J^  of  re.t, 
^^^t^r'^Ton^— .brea.. 

81.  Melbosb  Abbbt. 

U  where  to  be  found.  >«  ""^  ^ J^j     the  remain,  of  four 
Scotland.    There  "''"^^^tiXf  Melrose  i- perhap.  tl,o 

ro«rrJ:r^^^^^^^^^^ 

by^ne  age..  ,  „„aem  writer,  "1.  indeed  ■ 

i  rSti».  X  person  ean  help  ad.,rin»  It, 


280 


TIIK   Tiilltn    RKADER. 


whether  ho  survey  it  narrowly,  or  contemplate  it    t  son 
distance ;  whether  he  exumiue  it  in  detail,  or  in  on    compH 
hensive  view.     It  is  not  one  of  those  rude  edi6ccs  whicl 
when  seen  from  afar,  when  contrasted  with  some  neighborii| 
object,  and  magnified  or  embellished  with  imagined  perfection 
strike  the  eye  with  admiration  of  their  vastncss  and  beautjl 
but  from  the  coarseness  of  their  materials,  or  the  ignorartl 
of  those  who  constructed  them,  sink  into  deformity  whcj 
jBubjected  to  a  minute  and  critical  inspection. 


,^T-    -^f'^ 


8.  It  is  impossible  to  view  it  from  any  quarter,  or  fc  any 
durection,  without  perceiving  it  to  be  a  most  admirable  speci- 
men of  the  architecture  of  former  tunes,  and  a  striking  monu- 
ment of  the  taste  of  the  builder,  as  well  as  of  the  piety  of  its 
founder.  It  pleases  alike  by  the  magnificence  of  its  plan  and 
the  exquisite  fineness  of  its  workmanship,  by  its  local  situation 
and  the  interesting  associations  to  which  it  gives  rise. 

4.  He  who  can  view  the  abbey  of  Melrose  without  being 
highly  gratified,  has  neither  understanding  that  is  cultivated, 
nor  feelings  that  one  might  envy.  He  is  ruder  than  the  ground 
on  which  he  treads,  he  is  more  insensible  than  the  structure 
whose  beauties  he  cannot  see. 


1^  l>OOB.b\ii 

A  along,  «a 

Btrength:  "J< 

di8c\p^.e9  vronl 

louder:  "J^* 
Jesus,  having 

that  I  do  f  01 
2,  «'liOtci 
«« fleceVve 
inade  thee  ^ 
And  'vai 
andhefoU 
Utude  ^hc 
jtlving 
*  3.  But 
gave  Big^ 
from  his 


OVRINO  THR  BUND. 


.:!«'? 


281 


1 


-^^-^  -y 


82.  CtiRiNO  THB  Blind. 


AIb^  c.me  forth  *» -^^^^^etevey  o«  meV-  J.« 
"Receive  tuy  sig""' 


^. 


^t<J^. 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


4^ 


1.0 


1.1 


■50    ■^B 

^   tto    12.0 


25 
2.2 


—  '"^  Ilii4 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


^ 


23  WBT  MAIN  STRilT 

WIBSTH,N.Y.  14SM 

(716)t72-4S03 


^"^V"^" 

^V^ 

V 


282 


THS  THIRD  TtWAT)1i'.lC 


who  hath  sinned,  tMs  man  or  his  parents,  that  he  should  \» 
bom  blind?" 

As  though  the  infirmities  wherewith  some  are  bom  were 
always  chastisements  from  God,  whereas  they  are  often  in- 
tended as  special  graces  in  the  merciM  designs  of  Provi- 
dence. 

4.  The  SaTionr  answered :  "  Neither  hath  tlils  man  sinned, 
nor  his  parents ;''  he  is  bom  blind  in  order  "  that  the  works 
of  God  may  be  made  manifest  in  him."  f^ 

He  then  spat  upon  the  ground,  made  day  of  the  spittle, 
and  with  it  nibbed  the  eyes  of  fl»  Mind  man,  saying :  "  Go 
wash  in  the  pool  of  SUod." 

6.  This  was  a  pnblio  fomxtain  of  Jerosalrai.  The  man  went 
accordingly,  washed  himself,  and  reooyered  his  nght.  And 
his  fri^ds  and  aoqnaintaoces  asked  each  other,  "Is  it,  indeed, 
the  same  man  whom  we  have  seen  ritting  here  begging?" 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  am  he." 

.6.  And  tney  asked  him  how  his  eyes  had  been  opened. 
And  he  told  them:  "That  man  who  is  called  Jesus,  made  clay 
with  lus  spittle,  and  anointed  my  eyes,  and  said  to  me :  'Go 
to  the  pool  of  SiloS  and  wash.'  I  went,  I  washed,  and  I  see." 

And  they  asked  him,  "  Where  is  he?"  And  he  replied, "  I 
know  not." 

The  man  was  immediately  brought  to  the  Pharisees,  and  to 
them  he  related  how  Jesus  had  restored  his  sight. 

t.  Now,  it  was  on  the  Sabbath,  the  day  of  rest,  tha^  Jesus 
had  cured  him ;  and  the  Pharisees  were  embarrassed.  Some 
sud:  "This  man  is  not  of  God,  who  keepeth^not  the  Sab- 
bath." But  others  said :  "  How  can  a  man  that  is  a  sinner 
do  such  miracles?"  And  then  they  asked  the  man  that  had 
oeen  blind:  "What  sayest  thoii  of  this  man?"  And  he 
•aid :  "  He  is  a  prophet,  a  man  sent  from  God." 

8.  But  the  Pharisees,  still  obstinate  in  their  incredulity 
refused  to  believe  that  he  had  been  blind,  or  cured,  and  they 
questioned  his  family  on  the  subject.    Behold,  children,  how 
the  most  da^ding  miracles  of  the  Saviour  were  strictly  exam- 
inied,  so  that  their  authenticity  was  clearly  established. 

9.  "Is  this  your  son,  whom  some  say  was  bora  blind f 


i,aidtbePli« 
.•How,  then,i 

"Yea,**  bM 
lie  now  sees.! 


'     10.  "GH 

fliftn  is  a  an^ 

'     «ifheb«| 

1  toiow,tbftt,l 

that  God  dj 
world  it  h^ 
eyes  of  onj 
conld  not  dl 
11.  The 
««Wwtch,' 

us?"  A^^. 
lieard  of  t« 
in  the  Soul 

Uxlumr 
AndJ< 
ingtl«8i^ 


1. 


I'HB  COUHTBT  FELLOWS  AND  THB  ABS. 


dsd 


i»e  should  bel 

^^  wetel 
often  in,\ 
of  Provi. 

I  n»an  sinned^ 
it  the  works 

'^^0  spittle, 
^fir:  "Go 

»««» irent 
??*•    And 
'  i*»  indeed. 

opened, 
laade  clay 
me:  'Go 
ndl 

epiied,  "j 


ft 


»» and  to 


laid  the  Pharisees  to  the  parents  of  hfm  who  had  been  blind. 
"  How,  then,  doth  he  now  see?" 

"  Yes,"  said  thej,  "  he  is  our  son.  He  was  bom  blind,  and 
he  now  sees.  Ask  himself  how  he  was  cnred."  They  were, 
themselves,  afraid  to  tell  the  truth.  So  the  Pharisees  went 
again  and  interrogated  the  man  who  had  been  cured. 

10.  "  Give  glory  to  God,"  said  they,  "  we  know  that  this 
man  is  a  sinner." 

"  If  he  be  a  sumer,"  he  replied,  "  I  know  not.  One  thing  I 
know,  that,  whereas  I  was  blind,  I  now  see.  And  we  know 
that  God  doth  not  hear  simiers.  From  the  beginning  of  the 
world  it  hath  not  been  heard  that  any  man  hath  opened  the 
eyes  of  one  bom  blind.  Unless  this  man  were  of  God,  he 
conld  not  do  the  things  that  he  hath  done." 

11.  The  Pharisees,  being  angry  with  the  man,  exclaimed : 
"  Wretdi,  thou  wast  wholly  bom  in  sin,  and  dost  thoa  teach 
OS  ?"  And  they  drove  him  from  their  presence.  Jesus,  having 
heard  of  this,  came  to  the  man,  and  said :  **  Dost  thou  beUeve 
in  the  Son  of  God?" 

And  he  answered :  "  Who  is  he.  Lord,  that  I  may  believe 
inhun?" 

And  Jesus  sud :  "  It  is  he  who  talketh  with  thee."  Hea^ 
ing  this,  the  man  fell  down  and  adored,  bim. 


"^  Jesus 
Some 
iieSab. 
>  sinner 
lathad 
^od  he 

inlity 
I  they 
»  how 
ttam. 


i>   83  Thb  Ck>ui!rrBT  Fellows  ard  the  Ass. 

1.    A  OOXTNTRY  fellow  and  his  son,  they  tell 
•A-  In  modem  fables,  had  an  ass  to  sell : 
For  this  intent  they  tum'd  it  out  to  play. 
And  fed  so  well,  that  by  the  destined  day. 
They  brought  the  creature  into  sleek  repair, 
And  drove  it  gently  to  a  neighboring  faur. 

S.  As  they  were  jogging  on,  a  rural  class 

Was  heard  to  say,  "  Look !  look  there,  at  that  ass  I 


*«6««i«fJtSg~... 


284 


TUB  THIRD  BBADBB. 


And  those  two  blockheads  tradging  on  each  side, 
That  have  not,  either  of  'em,  sense  to  ride ; 
Asses  all  three !''    And  thus  the  country  folks 
On  man  and  boy  began  to  cnt  their  jokes. 

8.  Th'  old  fellow  minded  nothing  that  they  said, 
Bnt  every  word  stuck  in  the  yoong  one's  head ; 
And  thas  began  their  comment  iihereapon : 
"Ne'er  heed  'em,  lad."    "  Nay,  father,  do  get  on." 
"  Not  I,  indeed."    "  Why  then  let  me,  I  pray.*' 
"  Well  do ;  and  see  what  prating  tongues  will  say.** 

4.  The  boy  was  mounted ;  and  they  had  not  got 
Much  farther  on,  before  another  knot, 
Just  as  the  ass  was  pacing  by,  pad,  pad, 
Oried,  "  Oh  I  that  lazy  booby  of  a  kd  I 
How  unconcernedly  the  gaping  brute 
Lets  the  poor  aged  fellow  walk  afoot." 

6.  Down  came  the  son  on  hearing  this  account. 

And  begg'i^      1  pray'd,  and  made  his  father  mount : 

Till  a  tMrd ,      /  on  a  further  stretch, 

"  See  1i  see !"  exclaimed,  "  that  old  hard-hearted  wretch  i 

How  like  a  justice  there  he  sits,  or  squire ; 

W  'Jtile  the  poor  lad  keeps  wading  through  the  mire." 

6.  "  Stop,"  cried  the  lad,  still  vex'd  in  deeper  mind, 
"  Stop,  father,  stop ;  let  me  get  on  behind." 

This  done,  they  thought  they  certainly  should  please, 
Escape  reproaches,  and  be  both  at  ease ; 
For  having  tried  each  practicable  way. 
What  could  be  left  for  jokers  now  to  say  ? 

7.  Still  disappointed,  by  succeeding  tone, 

"  Hark  ye,  you  fellows  I    Is  that  ass  your  own  ? 
Get  off,  for  shame  t  or  one  of  you  at  least  1 
You  both  deserve  to  carry  the  poor  beast ! 
Beady  to  drop  down  dead  upon  the  road, 
With  such  a  huge  unconscionable  load." 


*  Contrive} 
The  ass 

Witli 
Others 

Ab  over 

9,  The  coi 

B.ubVd| 
Wa&'c' 

And 
«»Xiett 

TotWi 


P^iTEl 
deao 

made  a 
tratedV 

voice  0 
l^roclaS 


aide^ 


?t  on." 


THB  FIB8T  OBITSAOB. 

8.  On  this  they  both  dismounted;  and,  some  say, 
Gontrived  to  carry,  like  a  tmss  of  hay, 

The  ass  between  'em ;  prints,  they  add,  are  seen 
With  man  and  lad,  and  slinging  ass  between ; 
Others  omit  that  fancy  in  the  print, 
As  overstraining  an  ii^nions  hint. 

9.  The  copy  that  we  follow,  says.  The  moa 
Bnbb'd  down  the  ass,  and  took  to  his  first  plan, 
Walk'd  to  the  fan*,  and  sold  him,  got  his  price. 
And  gave  his  son  this  pertinent  advice : 

"  Let  talke::?  talk ;  stick  thon  to  what  is  best ; 
To  think  of  ploasuig  all — is  all  a  jest." 


285 


84.  Thb  Fntsrr  Cbubadb. 

PETER  the  Hermit,  the  preacher  of  the  first  cmsade,  was 
descended  from  a  noble  family  of  Ficardy.  Having 
made  a  jdlgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land,  one  day,  while  pros- 
trated before  the  holy  sepulchre,  he  believed  that  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Christ,  which  said  to  Mm, — "  Peter,  arise  I  hasten  to 
proddm  the  tribulations  of  my  people ;  it  is  time  that  my 


SdH 


THB  THIRD  BBAOER. 


servants  shoald  receive  help,  and  that  the  holy  places  shoQldj 
be  delivered." 

2.  Foil  of  the  spirit  of  these  words,  which  sounded  un- 
ceasingly in  his  ears,  and  charged  with  letters  from  the| 
patriarch,  he  quitted  Palestine,  crossed  the  seas,  landed  on 
the  coast  of  Italy,  and  hastened  to  cast  himself  at  the  feet  oi 
the  pope.  The  chair  of  St.  Peter  was  then  occupied  by 
Urban  II.,  who  had  been  the  disciple  and  confidant  of  both 
Gregory  and  Victor.  Urban  embraced  with  ardor  a  project 
which  had  been  entertained  by  his  predecessors ;  he  received 
Peter  as  a  prophet,  applaud^  his  design,  and  bade  him  go 
forth  and  announce  the  approaching  deliverance  of  Jerusalem. 

Peter  thb  Hbrmtt  and  !Kbrbooha. 

3.  The  leaders  of  the  Christian  army  who  had  prepared 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  soldiers,  now  employed  themselves  in 
taking  advantage  of  it.  They  sent  deputies  to  the  general  of 
the  Saracens,  to  offer  hun  either  a  single  combat  or  a  general 
battle.  Peter  the  Hermit,  who  had  evinced  more  exaltation 
than  any  other  person,  was  chosen  for  this  embassy. 

4.  Although  received  with  contempt  in  the  camp  of  the 
infidels,  he  delivered  himself  no  less  hanglitily  or  boldly. 
"  The  {ffinces  assembled  in  Antioch,"  said  Petor,  addressmg 
the  Saracen  leaders,  "  have  sent  me  to  demand  jnttioe  of  you. 
These  provinces,  stained  with  the  blood  of  martyrs,  have 
belonged  to  Ohrtetian  nations,  and  as  all  Ohiistian  people  are 
brothers,  we  axe  come  into  Asia  to  avenge  the  ii\juries  of 
those  who  have  been  persecuted,  and  to  defend  the  heritage 
of  Ghrist  and  his  disdples. 

5.  "  Heaven  has  allowed  the  dties  of  Syria  to  fall  for  a  time 
into  the  power  of  infidels,  in  order  to  chastise  the  offences  of 
his  people ;  but  learn  that  the  vengeance  of  the  Most  High  is 
appeased ;  learn  that  the  tears  and  penitence  of  the  Ohristians 
have  turned  aside  the  sword  of  divine  justice,  and  that  the 
God  of  armies  has  arisen  to  fight  on  our  side.  Neverthdess 
we  still  consent  to  speak  of  peace. 

6.  "  I  coi^nre  fon,  in  the  name  of  the  aU-poweiAd  God,  to 


prr 

ibandon  the 
country.    The 
Uolestyouin 
you  that  the 
you  to  see  the 
'to  us,  how  del 
brethren,  and 
H^  "But if 
ofTpeace  or  i 
of  "battle  at. 

Christian*''" 
accustomed 

combat" 
g.  -When 

the  leader  c 

the  bravest 

number  of  tl 

^an  princes 

ever  may  « 

enemies  arc 

whom  we  » 

9.  Kerb 

who  was  1 

Vn  their  di 

remained  1 

but  at  leu 

them  it  i< 

ftud  not 

men,  phw 

are  not  ii 

10.  "I 

upon  be 

ome  pit 

may  for 

fower; 

elothes, 

theKc 

U. 


PITBB  THE  HEBlirr  AlTD  KBRSOOHA. 


287 


ahouldj 


»P  or  the 
»  boldly, 
^idressing 
•  0^  yon. 
^t  We 

Mes  of 
lieritage 

I*  a  tune 
snoes  of 

ristiang 
lat  the 
theless 


ibandon  the  territory  of  Antioch  and  return  to  yonr  own 
country.  The  Christians  promise  yon,  by  my  yoioe,  not  to 
molest  yon  in  yonr  retreat.  We  ?dll  even  pnt  np  prayers  for 
jon  that  the  tme  God  may  tonch  yonr  hearts,  and  permit 
yon  to  see  the  tmth  of  onr  fkith.  If  Heaven  deigns  to  listen 
to  ns,  how  delightfnl  it  will  be  to  ns  to  giro  yon  the  name  of 
brethren,  and  to  conclude  with  yon  a  lasting  peace  I 

I.  "  Bnt  if  yon  are  not  wilUng  to  accept  either  the  blessings 
of  peace  or  the  benefits  of  the  Ohristian  religion,  let  the  fate 
of 'battle  at.  length  decide  the  jnstioe  of  onr  canse.  As  the 
Christians  will  not  be  taken  by  snrprise,  and  as  they  are  not 
accnstomed  to  steal  Tictories,  they  ofTer  yon  the  choice  of 
combat." 

8.  When  finishing  his  discourse,  Peter  fixed  his  eyes  npon 
the  leader  of  the  Saracens,  and  said,  "  Choose  from  among 
the  bravest  of  thy  army,  and  let  them  do  battle  with  an  eqnal 
number  of  the  Cmsaders ;  fight  thyself  with  one  of  onr  Cluris- 
|pan  princes ;  or  give  the  signal  for  a  general  battle.  W  hat- 
ever  may  be  thy  choice,  thou  shalt  soon  learn  what  thy 
enemies  are,  and  thou  shalt  know  what  the  great  God  is 
whom  we  serve  I" 

9.  Kerboghft,  who  knew  the  situation  of  the  Christians,  and 
who  was  not  aware  of  the  kind  of  succor  they  had  received 
in  their  distress,  was  much  surprised  at  such  langm^.  He 
remained  for  some  tune  mute  with  astonishment  and  rage, 
but  at  length  sud,  "  Betum  to  them  who  sent  you,  and  tell 
tiiem  it  is  the  part  of  the  conquered  to  "eceive  conditions, 
and  not  to  dictate  them.  Miserable  vag^ibonds,  e3i:tennated 
men,  phantoms  may  terrify  womra;  but  the  warriors  (of  Asia 
are  not  intimidated  by  vain  words. 

10.  "  The  Christians  shall  soon  learn  that  the  land  we  tread 
npon  belongs  to  us.    Nevertheless,  I  am  willing  to  entertain 

ome  pity  for  them,  and  if  they  will  ^knowledge  Mohammed,  1 
may  forget  that  this  city,  a  pnj%o  famine,  is  abeady  in  my 
power ;  I  may  leave  it  ia  theur  hands,  and  give  them  arms, 
dothes,  bread,  women,  in  short,  all  that  they  have  not ;  fo» 
the  Koran  bids  us  pardon  all  who  submit  to  its  laws. 

II.  *'  Bid  thy  companions  hasten,  and  on  this  ^^ery  day  takt 


TUB  THIKO  BKADKK. 


adrantage  of  my  clemency ;  to-morrow  they  shall  only  leave  | 
Antloch  by  the  sword.    They  will  then  see  if  their  cmcified 
God,  who  conld  not  saye  himself  Arom  the  cross,  can  save 
them  from  the  fate  which  is  prepared  for  them." 

12.  This  speech  was  loudly  applauded  by  the  Saracens, 
whose  fanaticism  it  rekindled.  Peter  wished  to  reply,  but  the 
Sultan  of  Mossoul,  placing  his  hand  upon  his  sword,  com- 
manded that  these  miserable  mendicants,  who  united  blindness 
with  insolence,  should  be  driyen  away. 

18.  The  Christian  deputies  retired  in  haste,  and  were  in 
danger  of  losing  their  liyes  seyeral  times  while  passing  through 
the  army  of  the  infidels.  Teter  rendered  an  account  of  his 
mission  to  the  assembled  princes  and  barons;  and  all  im- 
mediately prepared  for  battle.  The  heralds-at-arms  proceeded 
through  the  different  quarters  of  the  city,  and  battle  was 
promised  for  the  next  day  to  the  impatient  yalor  of  the 
Crusaders. 


85.  Thb  Battlb  07  Antiooh. 

ALL  at  once  the  Saracens  commenced  the  attack  by  dis- 
charging a  cloud  of  arrows  and  then  ruphing  on  the 
Crusaders,  uttering  barbarous  cries.  In  spite  of  their  im- 
petuous shock,  their  right  wing  was  soon  repulsed  and  pene- 
trated by  the  Christians. 

2.  Godfirey  met  with  greater  resistance  in  their  left  wing ; 
he  succeeded,  howeyer,  in  breaking  it,  and  carrying  disorder 
among  their  ranks.  At  the  moment  that  the  troops  of 
Kerboghft  began  to  giye  way,  the  Sultan  of  Nice,  who  had 
qiade  the  tour  of  the  monntun  and  returned  along  the  banks 
of  the  Orontes,  fell  with  impetuosity  upon  the  rear  of  the 
Christian  army,  and  threatened  destruction  to  the  body  of 
reserye  commanded  by  Bohemond. 

3.  The  Crusaders,  who  fought  on  foot  could  not  redst  the 
first  charge  of  the  Saracen  cayalry.  Hugh  the  Great,  warned 
of  the  danger  of  Bohemond,  abandoned  the  pursuit  of  the 
fii^tiyes,  and  hastened  to  the  succor  of  the  body  of  reserve 


1 

fben  the  b 
Arslan,  whc 
weU  as  the 
big  troops, 
clothed  in 
terror  throi 
4.  The  I 
away,  and 
infidels.    < 
Hugh  and 
the  death  • 
6.  The 
firmly  witl 
the  comba 
low  bush< 
me^^ately 
masses  ofj 
broken;  i 
The  Sultj 
stratagen 
hands  of 
6.  At 
Been  to  d 
by  three 
armor, 
succor  y 
Christia 
odore,  < 
turned 
the  Ch 

coving 
waahe 

1.1 

and  ^ 

theCi 

contii 

thMik 

fOBOO 


THB  SATTLB  OF  AlHIOOH. 


989 


|o«JrIeaTc 

cindfied 

can  save 

Saracens, 
fit  bat  the 
^ord,  com. 

blindness 


c  bjdis- 

on  the 

heir  jm- 

Id  pene- 

t  wing* 
iisorder 
ops  of 
!io  had 
banks 
of  the 
>dy  of 

8ft  the 
anied 
f  the 
lerre 


Then  the  battle  was  renewed  with  redoubled  fnry.  Kilicy 
Arslan,  who  had  to  avenge  the  shame  of  seyenJ  defeats,  as 
well  as  the  loss  of  his  states,  foaght  like  a  lion  at  the  head  of 
hi9  troops.  A  sqoadron  of  three  thousand  Saracen  horse, 
clothed  in  steel  and  armed  with  clnbs,  carried  disorder  and 
terror  throagh  the  ranks  of  the  Ohristians. 

4.  The  standard  of  the  Count  de  Yermandois  was  carried 
away,  and  retaken,  corered  with  the  blood  of  Gmsaders  and 
infidels.  Qodfirey  and  Tancred,  who  flew  to  the  assistance  of* 
Hugh  and  Bohemond,  signalized  their  strength  and  yalor  by 
the  death  of  a  great  many  Mussulmans. 

6.  The  Sultan  of  Nice,  whom  no  reverse  could  overcome, 
firmly  withstood  the  shock  of  the  Clhrih<jans.  In  the  heat  of 
the  combat,  he  ordered  lighted  flax  to  be  thrown  among  the 
low  bashes  and  dried  grass  which  covered  the  plain.  Im- 
mediately a  blaze  arose  which  enveloped  the  Christians  m 
masses  of  flame  and  smoke.  Their  ranks  were  for  a  moment 
broken ;  they  could  no  longer  either  see  or  hear  their  leaders. 
The  Sdtan  of  Nice  was  about  to  gather  the  fruits  of  his 
stratagem,  and  victory  was  on  the  point  of  escaping  from  the 
hands  of  the  Crusaders. 

6.  At  this  moment,  say  the  histo^  V'."^,  a  squadron  was 
seen  to  descend  from  the  summit  of  the  Jionntuns,  preceded 
by  three  horsemen  clothed  in  white  and  povered  with  shining 
armor.  "Behold!''  cried  Bishop  Adhemar,  "the  heavenly 
succor  which  was  promised  to  you.  Heaven  declares  for  the 
Christians;  the  holy  martyrs,  Qeoige,  Demetrios,  and  The- 
odore, come  to  fight  for  you."  Immediately  all  eyes  were 
turned  towards  the  celestLal  legion.  A  new  ardor  inspired 
the  Christians,  who  were  persuaded  that  God  hhnself  was 
coxping  to  their  aid,  and  the  w(UN»y  "JRiathe  wiU  cf  Ood/" 
wad  heard  as  at  the  beginning  of  the  battle. 

t.  The  women  and  children  who  had  remained  in  Antioch, 
and  were  collected  on  the  walls,  animated  the  courage  of 
the  Crosaders  by  %eir  cries  and  acclamations,  while  the  priests 
continued  to  raise  their  hands  towards  heaven,  and  returned 
thanks  to  God  by  songs  of  praise  and  thanksgiving  for  th* 
tooeor  he  had  sent  to  the  Christians. 

18  A 


390 


THB  THIRD  BBADBB. 


,  8.  Of  the  Omsaden  themselveB  each  man  became  a  hero, 
and  nothing  conld  stand  before  their  impetaoos  charge.  In  a 
moment  the  ranks  of  the  Saracens  were  everywhere  broken, 
and  they  only  fonght  in  confosion  and  disorder.  They  en< 
dearored  to  nlly  on  the  other  side  of  a  torrent  and  upon  an 
elevated  point,  whence  their  trumpets  and  clarions  resounded ; 
but  the  Oount  de  Yermandois  attacked  them  in  this  last  post, 
and  completely  routed  them.  They  had  now  no  safety  but  in 
llight,  and  the  banks  of  the  Orontes,  the  woods,  the  plains, 
the  muuntabs  were  covered  with  the  fugitives,  who  abandoned 
both  their  arms  and  their  baggage. 

9.  EerboghA,  who  had  been  so  certain  of  victory  as  to 
have  announced  the  defeat  of  the  Ohristians  to  the  Oaliph  of 
Bagdad  and-  the  Sultan  of  Persia,  fled  towards  the  Euphrates, 
escorted  by  a  small  body  of  his  most  faithful  soldiers.  Several 
of  the  emirs  had  taken  to  flight  before  the  end  of  the  battle. 

10.  Tancred  and  some  others,  mounted  on  the  horses  of  the 
conquered  enemy,  pursued  till  nightfall  the  Sultans  of  Aleppo 
and  Damascus,  the  Enur  of  Jerusalem,  and  the  scattered 
wreck  of  the  Saracen  army.  The  conquerors  set  fire  to  the 
intrenchments  behind  which  the  enemy's  infantry  had  sought 
refuge,  and  a  vast  number  of  Mussulmans  perished  in  tiie  flames. 

11.  According  to  the  account  o'  several  contemporary  his- 
torians, the  infidels  left  a  hundred  thousand  dead  on  the  field 
of  battle.  Four  thousand  Crusaders  lost  their  lives  on  this 
glorious  day,  and  were  placed  among  the  ranks  of  the  martyrs. 

12.  The  Ohristians  found  abundance  beneath  the  tents  of 
their  enemies ;  fifteen  thousand  camels  and  a  great  number  of 
horses  fell  into  their  hands.  As  they  passed  the  night  in  the 
camp  of  the  Saracens,  they  had  leisure  to  admire  the  luxury 
of  the  Orientals,  and  they  examined  with  the  greatest  surprise 
the  tent  of  the  King  of  Mossoul,  resplendent  with  gold  and 
precious  stones,  which,  divided  into  long  streets  flanked  by 
high  towers,  resembled  a  fortified  city.  They  employed  several 
days  in  carrying  the  spoils  into  Aniioch.  The  booty  was 
immense,  and  every  Crusader,  according  to  the  remark  of 
Albert  d' Aix,  found  himself  much  richer  than  he  was  when  hs 
quitted  Europe. 


TUB 


yUjj^OB  WHOOtUABTKE. 


m 


>    86.  Thk  Village  SoHOouiASTBR. 


A  man  severe  he  waa,  »««*  ^ 

I  knew  him  weU.  ««^f ^"'J  *!!^artfd  to  trace 
W  had  the  boding  tremW^^^^ 

The  day's  f  "*«"  ^.^^th  Srfeited  glee 
rnllwelUheylanglidwithco  ^^ 

M  an  his  jokes,  for  "'^  *  J^  «,nnd,        • 
Full  well  the  busy  wM^'.«^^ 

Oonvey'dthed^a^^^^^jJ:^,,^^^^ 
Yet  be  was  kind,  or  tf  w^ew       ^ 

The  village  f\*«^f^J^^  and  cipber  too ; 

,Twa8  certain  be  «>^J  ^J^^  ^d  tides  presage, 

I^ands  be  cf  ^^meas^e  ^^^ 

And  even  the  story  '«^^;"  ,4  his  skill, 

Inargaing,too,tbe^;7/eonldargne8tiU; 

For  even  tbongb  ▼a^l^.^J'' "  .^d  thnnd'ring  sound 
Wewordsofleaxnedl^l^^*^^^^ 

Amiaed  the  gaptogTMt^  t    ^^^^^,  gjew 


292 


THB  THIRD  BKADBR. 


TBI 


V, 


87.  The  Hector  of  Quionbn  and  bis  Yioab. 


THE  rector  of  Guignen,  a  venerablo  old  man,  and  his  vicar, 
had  been  a  short  time  before  guillotined  ia  the  city  of 
Rennes,  when  I  went  to  see  my  sister,  Madame  Junsions,  vrho 
lived  at  a  short  distance  from  Goignen ;  she  related  to  me 
the  following  incidents  of  the  capture  of  these  two  victims : 

2.  They  had  been  warned  of  the  search  that  was  being  made 
for  thorn,  and  attempted  to  escape  through  the  fields,  when 
they  were  perceived  by  those  in  pursuit  of  them.  They  wore, 
however,  a  considerable  distance  ahead,  and  the  vicar,  who  was 
much  the  youngest  and  more  active,  might  easily  have  escaped. 

8.  They  gained,  however,  upon  the  old  priest,  firing  their 
guns  at  him  as  they  pursued  him.  The  vicar  had  crossed  a 
brook  and  ascended  the  opposite  bank,  and  was  out  of  the 
reach  of  his  pursuers,  when  looking  back  he  perceived  that  the 
aged  rector  was  unable  to  get  up  the  steep  ascent.  His  pur- 
suers were  shouting  with  joy  at  hip  unavailing  efforts. 

4.  The  young  man  immediately  turned  back,  to  the  surprise 
of  the  soldiers,  who  could  not  but  admire  his  heroic  charity, 
and  endeavored  to  assist  the  good  o\d  parish  priest.  He  de- 
scended the  bank,  recrossed  the  brook,  and  covering  him  with 
his  body,  strove  to  aid  him  across.  But  he  was  unable  to  do 
so  before  the  soldiers  came  up  and  took  them  both  prisoners, 
to  be  led,  as  they  well  knew,  to  certain  death. 

6.  The  gendarmes  stopped  at  my  sister's  house,  with  their 
prisoners,  on  their  way  to  the  city.  The  leader  pf  the  prrty, 
the  infiimpus  and  dreaded  D ^n,  who  had  already  distin- 
guished''Umself  by  many  sidiilar  captures,  and  was  a  man  of 
frightful  aspect  and  most  sanguinary  disposition,  told  my  sister 
'.he  circumstances  which  I  have  related  above,  with  some  ex 
pressions  of  a  sort  of  admiration  and  pity,  the  more  striking 
from  the  mouth  of  such  a  monster. 

6.  "  I  ahnost  regret,"  he  said,  "  that  such  a  brave  fellow 
will  have  to  be  put  to  death,  after  such  a  noble  action.  He 
was  quite  safe,  citizeness  {eitot/enne),"  he  added.  "  We  had 
given  him  up,  but  we  were  gaining  on  the  old  one,  when  lo  I 


ho  turned 
time  covet 


THR  SKOTOB  OF  OUIONKM  AND  niB   VIOAR. 


298 


lOAB. 

[his  vicar, 
h  city  of 
fons,  wrho 
to  me 
Btims  ; 

f^  made 
when 
fey  wore, 

fho  vraa 
'Scaped. 
»fir  their 
mossed  a 

of  the 
that  the 
[is  par- 

orprfee 
5hority, 
He  de- 
a  ^ith 

to  do 
anew, 

their 
frty, 
istin- 
inof 
ister 
ex 

JDg 

ow 
le 
>d 
>/ 


ho  tarnod  back  and  came  to  help  bim  cross  the  brook,  all  the 
time  corering  him  with  his  body  against  the  fire  of  oar  guns 


It  was  a  remarkable  and  affecting  scene."  Yet,  as  soon  as 
they  had  got  some  refreshments,  they  hurried  on  with  their 
prisoners  to  the  tribunal,  ani  from  the  tribunal  they  went  the 
same  day  to  the  8caff6ld. 


894 


THE  THIBD  BBADBB. 


88.  The  Three  Homes. 

1.  TTTHERE  is  thy  home  V  I  ask'd  a  cluld, 
VV    Who,  in  the  morning  air, 
Was  twining  flowers  most  sweet  and  wild 

In  garlands  for  her  hair : 
"  My  home/'  the  happy  heart  replied, 

And  smiled  in  childish  glee, 
"  Is  on  the  sunny  monntain  side, 

Where  soft  winds  wander  fiwe." 
Oh  t  blessings  fall  on  artless  youth, 

And  all  its  rosy  hours, 
When  every  word  is  joy  and  truth, 

And  treasures  live  in  flowers ! 


S.  "  Where  is  thy  home?"  I  ask'd  of  one 

Who  bent  with  flushing  face, 
To  hear  a  warrior's  tender  tone 

In  the  wild  wood's  secret  place. 
She  spoke  not,  but  her  varying  cheek 

The  tale  might  well  impart ; 
The  home  of  her  young  spirit  meek 

Was  in  a  kindred  heart. 
Ah  1  souls  that  well  might  soar  above, 

To  earth  will  fondly  cUng, 
And  build  their  hopes  on  human  love. 

That  light  and  firagUe  thing  I 


II 


Where  is  thy  home,  thou  lonely  man?" 

I  ask'd  a  pilgrim  gray. 
Who  came  with  fnrrow'd  brow,  and  wan 

Slow  musing  on  his  way : 
He  paused,  and  with  a  solemn  mien 

Uptum'd  his  holy  eyes— 
"  The  land  I  seek  thou  ne'er  hast  seen. 

My  home  is  in  the  skies  I" 


T 


[^ 


th< 
ha 
tb 

tl 

f 


295 


n.  1  bto'd-ttoico  bWa  the  heart  mmt  be 
""loXm  such  tho»gh«  are  g.«n. 
-J:  II.  ftoM  worldly  fetters  free- 
Its  only  home  in  he»«'»- 


89.  St.  7^  '>«"'»™'  °"^  *"  ^'^''' 


89    oT.  Jrjffi»»  *»— :- 

r..  V  Gt  Peter  gave  of  his  excur- 
mHB  favorable  account  ^ji^f  ,f  ^J^^^  the  objections  of 
Kn  to  CsBsarea,  '-^^l^ZJ,  the  faitMnl  wore 

the  faitb  at  Antioch.  Scriptures  witness,  fnU  of 

2.  Barnabas,  a  good  man  aBtbe       ,^^^  ^^  promote  the 

faith  and  the  Holy  Ghost^;^^^^^^^  Upon 

work  which  the  grace  of  »oa  na 


296 


THB  THIRD  BBADEB. 


his  arrival  he  could  not  but  rejoice  at  the  pleasmg  |«ospect  of 
rel%ion :  an  extensive  field  was  opened  to  his  zeal  1  the  harvest 
of  souls  was  very  great,  the  workmen  few.  He  encouraged 
them  to  persevere  in  the  happy  coarse  they  had  undertaken, 
and  went  to  Tarsus  in  quest  of  Saul. 

3.  He  found  Mm  and  brought  hun  back  to  Antioch,  where 
they  employed  themselves  for  a  whole  year  in  the  service  of 
the  Lord ;  they  preached,  they  instructed,  they  labored  with 
unwearied  zeal,  and  had  the  consolation  to  see  their  labors 
crowned  with  success.  The  proselytes  they  made  irere  very  nu- 
merous, and  each  one  vied  with  his  neighbor  in  the  study  of  good 
works :  then  and  there  it  was,  that  the  followers  of  Christ's 
doctrine  were  first  distinguished  by  the  name  of  Christians. 

4.  About  the  same  tune  there  came  prophets  thitb<nr  ftom 
Jerusalem,  and  among  them  one  called  Agabus,  who  foretold 
a  great  famine.  The  Christians  were  alarmed  at  the  pro^Aecy, 
and  began  to  provide  against  the  tune  of  distress,  which  hap- 
pened under  Claudius.  They  collected  considerable  sums, 
which  they  put  .into  the  hands  of  Saul  and  Barnabas  for  the 
relief  of  their  brethren  dwellii^  in  Judea. 

5.  The  church  of  Jerusalem  was  at  that  time  sorely  aggrieved 
by  a  persecution,  which  Herod,  at  the  instigation-of  the  Jews, 
had  commenced  agcdnst  the  faithful ;  the  wicked  king  had  al- 
ready slaiu  St.  James,  the  brother  of  St.  John,  and  was  then 
meditating  the  death  of  St.  Peter.  Having  caused  him  to 
be  apprehended  during  the  Easter  time,  he  kept  him  in  prison 
under  a  strong  guard,  till  the  holydays  were  over,  when  he 
intended  to  bring  him  forth  to  the  people.  \i 

6.  The  faithful  were  in  the  deepest  consternation  at  the 
disastrous  event,  rightly  judging  that  the  welfare  of  the  flock 
was  closely  connected  with  that  of  the  pastor,  and  therefore 
day  and  night  did  they  send  up  the&  most  fervent  prayers  to 
heaven  for  his  deliverance.  The  Almighty  graciously  heard 
their  petition,  and  delivered  his  Apostle  on  the  very  night  that 
preceded  his  intended  execution. 

t.  Bound  with  two  chams,  St.  Peter  lay  asleep  between  two 

'  soldiers  in  the  prison,  perfectly  resigned  within  himself  either 

to  life  or  death,  when  the  angel  of  the  Lord  came  with  great 


brightness  1 

quickly-    "^ 
hands-,  he  I 

round  him,| 

ward,tffl^ 

8.  Af 

vent  on  tj 

rbc  saint  f 

been  in  a ' 

sent  Ins  J 

from  fttt  ^ 

be  cam* 

knocked 

9.  ^a 
■Rhode  h 

andinnn 

bim^»^ 
panythi 

bet  seni 
BtiU  the 
bad  he« 

10. 

went  t 

ished. 

gUentl 

what 

ratioi 

the  1 

ptivi 

1 

beei 

has 

8h 

G< 

he 

h( 

P 


„.  PBTIEB  1.SUVBEED  Ot>T  OF  PBBON. 


29T 


D*.    *"* . 

Lcldy.    That  moment  the  cba^feu^^^^^^^g^^ent 
hands  •  he  speedUy  »'°««' f  Vn^Xot^l^  he  first  and  second 
.onnd  him,  and  ^oUo-f  ^e^^f  ^^^^^^    led  to  the  city, 
ward,  tUl  they  came  to  thejon^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^  ^^ey 

8.  At  their  ^PP'^^f.f^f!!.  where  the  angel  left  him. 
went  ontotheend  of  the  ^eet^^^^j,,,eem^^ 
rhe  saint  then  came  to  ^f^'J^^^ow  that  the  Lord^atl 
been  in  a  dream,  and  sf^^,    Nowl  ^^  ^^^^^^  ^^, 

sent  his  angel,  and  deUvered  me  from  t  j^^^  the  event 

from  aU  the  expectations  of  tWews  8^^  ^^^^^  ,,, 

he  cam*  to  the  house  of  Mary, 
knocked  at  the  gate  ^^      y .  a  girl  called 

9.  Many  of  the  f^^^^^l^X  wl^^^  l^earken  at  the  door, 
Bhode  hearing  some  one  toockw^t;«j^^^^ 

and  immediately  knewit  to  ^^^^^J    to  acquaint  the  com- 

S  in,  she  ran  back  ^  a  tra^^^'^  ^^^^/told  her  she  had  lost 

pany  that  Peter  was  at  t^«  ff ^^^.^  them  that  so  it  was : 

!^V;:S:"S"^^^^         itwashisangelshe 

-Kerinthemeanw^-n^^^ 

went  to  the  door,  ^^d  on  ,«^"^fi,  hs  hand  not  to  say  a  word 
ished.    He  beckoned  to  ^^^^''^         them  an  account  of 
.ilently  enteted  into  ^^'^'^^ ^^^^^^^  had  finished  ^s  nax- 
what  God  had  done  for  ^^'  ^    .  ^^  j^^es  and  the  rest  of 

^tion,  ^l^^^fJ'^^^lCe^i^^y  out  of  the  city,  as 
the  brethren,  and  hastenea 

nrivately  as  he  could.  .         t  of  prison  has 

P"u.  ihe  wonderful  '^^^^  ?^  .^J; J  o  ^^  Church,  that  she 

heenthought  to  ^^^^^^^^^^^^^  <>-  "^^^''^i 
has  instituted  a  ^jfj^^  often  experienced  smce,  that 
She  then  experienced,  ^  she  ^  ^^^re  below ;  that 

unchangeable  decrees.  ^^^ 


298 


TIIK  THIRD  KBADBR. 


\i 


^y-/  ^ 


90.  Thr  Hermit. 

1.  rpUBN,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 
J-  And  goide  my  lonely  way 

To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale- 
With  hospitable  ray. 

2.  "  For  here,  forlorn  and  lost,  I  tread 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow — 
Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 
Seem  lengthenmg  as  I  go." 

JB.  "Forbear,  my  son,''  the  Hermit  cries, 
"  To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom ; 
For  yond^  futhless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

4.  "  Here,  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still ; 
And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 
I  give  it  with  good  will. 


POPB  LBO  THE  OttK^T  AMD  A'lTILA. 

6.  "  Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whatever  my  cell  bestows — 
My  mshy  conch  and  frugal  fare. 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

6.  "No  flocks  that  range  the  vaUey  free 
To  slaughter  I  condemn — 
Taught  by  that  power  that  pities  me. 
I  learn  to  pity  them ; 

1.  "  But,  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 
A  guiltless  feast  I  bring — 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

8.  "  Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego ; 
All  earth-bom  cares  are  wrong : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 
Nor  wants  that  little  long." 


299 


91.  FoPB  Lbo  the  Gbbat  and  Attila. 

IN  the  year  450,  Attila  began  his  expedition  agunst  the 
Western  Empire.  With  an  umuense  ai  Jiy,  he  set  oS  from 
Hungary,  directing  his  course  through  Germany,  towards  the 
Lower  Bhine.  Large  swarms  of  adventurers  joined  him  upon 
the  march,  and  swelled  hift  whole  force  to  half  a  million  of 
hardy  combatants.  Deymtatl  jn,  plunder,  CTuelty,  and  bloodr 
shed,  with  every  kind  of  outrage  that  can  be  dreaded  flrom 
armed  and  lawless  savages,  accompanied  the  march  of  Attila. 
He  bore  down  all  before  1dm :  Metz,  Triers,  Tongres,  Bheims, 
Gambrai,  and  all  the  towns  from  the  banks  of  the  Bhme  to 
the  very  centre  of  Gaul,  were  plundered,  burned,  or  laid  in 
ruins. 

2.  The  former  invaders  of  Ganl,  the  Goths,  Bnrgundians, 
Franks,  and  Alains,  then  saw  themselves  in  danger,  of  losmg 
their  new  possessions,  and  that  to  preserve  tbeur  existence  it 


300 


THK  TllUtI)   KKADBB. 


was  necessary  to  unite  their  forces  against  the  common  ene- 
my. They  joined  the  Roman  standard  under  the  command  of 
iBtius. 

3.  In  the  plains  of  Champagne,  near  Chalons,  the  two 
armies  met.  Fierce,  obstinate,  and  bloody  was  the  conflict. 
No  less  than  a  hundred  and  sixty-two  thousand  Huns  are 
said  to  have  fallen  in  that  memorable  battle,  fought  in  the 
year  451.  This  defeat  forced  Attila  to  quit  Qaul,  and  to  lead 
back  his  broken  troops  into  Hungary. 

4.  In  the  following  spring,  Attila  overran  Italy.  Meeting 
with  no  resistance,  he  ravaged  the  country  at  discretion,  re- 
duced several  of  the  fairest  towns  to  heaps  of  stones  and 
ashes ;  and,  to  finish  the  work  of  desolation  by  one  decisive 
stroke,  marched  against  Rome.  Rome  was  not  in  a  state  to 
resist.  Submissive  offers  and  negotiation  were  the  only  weap- 
ons she  had  to  ward  off  the.  blow.  In  the  chair  of  St.  Peter 
was  seated  the  holy  and  eloquent  Leo,  the  successor  of  Sixtus 
III.,  who  had  succeeded  Gclestine. 

5.  The  venerable  Pontiff,  moved  at  the  danger  that  threat- 
ened the  capital  of  the  empire,  generously  consented  to  put 
himself  into  the  power  of  a  savage  Tartar,  and  to  expose  his 
life  for  the  public  safety.  Without  arms,  and  without  a 
guard,  relying  solely  on  the  protection  of  God,  who  guides  the 
hearts  of  kings,  he  went  to  treat  with  the  sanguinary  mon- 
arch, who  was  styled  the  scourge  of  God  and  the  terror  of 
mankind. 

6.  Contrary  to  expectation,  Attila  received  him  with  honor, 
listened  with  attention  to  his  pathetic  and  eloquent  harangue, 
and  for  once  suffered  the  natural  ferocity  of  his  temper  to  b« 
softened  into  reason.  He  promised  peace  to  the  Romans 
drew  off  his  troops  and  evacuated  Italy. 

7.  Not  long  after  his  return  to  the  royal  village  which  h< 
had  chosen  for  his  residence  in  Hungary,  upon  the  fertil« 
banks  of  the  Danube,  he  burst  an  artery  in  his  sleep,  and  wai 
suffocated  in  his  own  blood.  The  quarrels  that  divided  hii' 
ions  and  the  followers  of  his  standard,  dissolved  the  vast,  un> 
wieldy  empire  of  the  Huns,  which  had  extended  from  the 
Volga  to  the  Rhine. 


CHILDHOOD  OF  CUHlBT. 


301 


92.  Childhood  of  C^ibtst. 


A  «fl  Toseph  brought  ba^k  that  boly 

WHEN  Herod  was  dead,  Josepn  o     6  ^^^^  j^^^^ 

famaytoNazarethmWe.    B^^^^^^     .^  ,«,, 

S\r^ti:f  Ofd  wasinh^^^  ^,,^  ,,,,.. 

2   Is  he  not  ^d^^^^V  If  Wlf  to  the  condition  of 
Jkon  as  a  God,  but  b«^3^*^«  ^'^^  hidden  in  Nazareth 

.  and'wisdom  winch  are  in  hun!  ^^^^^  j^^^,^  ^o  yon 

3    And  you,  cluldren,  hke  t^«^^^^       that  the  grace  ot 

God  may  be  with  yon.    O  chi«i'^^"  ^^^^^  ^^dren 

Sill  ag'es  1  age  of  im^cence !^  But^ ^o  y^.^^  .^  ^ ^^^^^ ^^^,, 
what  innocence  18?    Listen,  a 


80» 


THK  TUIIU)   KKADKM. 


on  earth.  Look  in  that  spotless  mhror :  how  well  your  image 
is  reflected  I  Thus  the  heart  of  an  innocent  child  reflects  the 
image  of  God. 

4.  Behold  that  pure  and  limpid  stream  where  the  heavens 
are  mirrored,  and  the  twinkling  stars  I  Thus  is  God  mirrored 
in  the  heart  of  a  pure  and  innocent  child.  Behold  the  dazzling 
whiteness  of  the  lily,  and  mark  wbat  a  sweet,  fresh  perfume 
exhales  from  its  graceful  cup !  So  is  innocence  the  perfume 
of  the  soul,  which  embalms  earth  and  heayen.  Behold  the 
snow  that  whitens  the  fields,  and  covers  them  in  the  dreary 
days  of  whiter  with  a  mantle  of  surpassing  beauty !  Thus  in> 
nocence  is  the  beautifhl  coveiing  of  the  souL 

5.  Oh  unhappy  day,  fatal  day,  when  a  child  first  loses  its  in- 
nocence,— Closes  it  forever?  Oh,  how  his  soul  is  disfigured  I 
Who  could  recognize  it  f  The  foul  mirror  no  longer  reflects 
your  unage;  the  troubled  stream  g^ves  back  no  longer  the 
azure  of  the  sky;  the  withered  IQy  hangs  its  faded  head,  with- 
out beauty  or  sweetness ;  the  white  snow  is  become  filthy  mud. 
A  pure  child  is,  as  we  said,  an  angel ;  but,  alas !  if  his  wmgs 
are  once  defiled  with  earthly  mir^,  can  the  angel  still  fly  up  to 
heaven  ? 

6.  It  is  to  the  little  infant  Jesus,  chfldren,  that  you  must 
recommend  your  innocence,  praying  hun,  at  the  same  tune,  to 
^ve  you  a  portion  of  his  wisdom.  His  modesty  made  him 
conceal  his  treasures ;  but  he  one  day  manifested  them,  and 
then  even  the  wise  themselves  were  mute  with  astonishment. 


\\ 


a.  OntheBi 
Benettthl 
Seethe 
To  anei 

^.  Andth^ 
"Who 
Andtl 

Audi 

..  Andtl 
AnAt 
\^ho 

Butil 

6.  Then 

M'^ 
And 

6.  A« 
A^ 
The 
An< 

•   A 
B 


93.  The  Buttbbflt's  Ball,  and  the  Gbasspoppeb's 

Fbabt. 


«.1 


I.  pOME  take  up  your  hats,  and  away  let  us  haste 
V  To  the  Butteirtfly's  ball  and  the  Grasshopper's  feast : 
The  trumpeter  Gad-fly  has  sunmon'd  the  crew. 
And  the  revels  are  now  only  waitimc  tor  yoo. 


«,tv    AMD  (,*AB8U0rFl£R.  ^^^ 

THE  BCrnfiBFLY   AMD  W»*»^ 

,    t.     ««.«aB  by  the  Bide  cf»  wood, 

*!,-  w««tle  BO  blind  and  bo  black, 
S.  And  there  came  the  B^J^^*^^;^^  on  hto  back ; 
mo  c«med  ^%?^Stt^JSrbragon.fly  too, 
ABd  there  came  *be  Gn^d  »^^  ^^e  j 
And  all  their  relations,  green,  onmB-. 

♦».«  Moth  i»ith  her  plmnage  of  down, 

-     —  «l«ll'a<^rt«fl^'"•'•• 
5.  Then  the  O,  »t«l?*rX&  *«  «<"• '    .  „ 
ABd  M  ^  tto  fa«0^^^;^  out  of  h«  ** 

Th.  viMid.  were  ;r "^to^  t^  ^<^  '^  '«"* ' 
And  the  Bee  btoogkt  tbe  nonej 

„,,„tio  the  SMil  m  ttSvunee, 
,.  -With  rtepe  r" '^.'!^„  .  mmet  to  deuce ; 
And  he  PWjr*  ** JS  that  he  drew  to  to  herf. 

Their  watchman,  the  <*1^;[  ^  ^  Ve  can  see ; 
SohomeletnBhastenwWeyetw    ^^^^^^^^ 

For  no  watchman  IB  waitmg  tor  y 


304 


THB  THIRD  RBADBB. 


94.  The  Asgbnsion. 

OUR  blessed  Lord  remained  forty  days  upon  earth  after  his 
resurrection,  appearing  sometimes  to  all  his  Apostles  at 
once,  and  sometimes  only  to  some,  that  he  might  thereby  fnlly 
convince  them  of  his  being  risen,  and  wean  them  by  degrees 
from  his  corporeal  presence.  During  that  tune,  he  instrncted 
them  in  the  nature  and  the  use  of  those  spiritual  powers 
which  he  had  imparted  to  them  for  the  good  of  mankind. 
What  those  instructions  were  m  particular,  the  evangelists  do 
not  mention.  St.  Luke  in  general  terms  says,  that  he  spoke 
to  them  of  the  kingdom  of  God,  which,  according  to  St 
Gregory,  is  his  Church  upon  earth. 

2.  St.  Matthew  and  St.  Mark  finish  their  evangelical  hiS' 
toiy  with  these  remarkable  words  of  our  blessed  Saviour  to 
his  Apostles,  saying, "  To  me  is  given  all  power  in  heaven  and 
on  earth  y  go  ye,  therefore,  teach  all  nations,  baptizmg  them 


in  the  nai 

QhoBt.  HI 

but  be  wq 

them,  therl 

ed  yon ;  f J 

of  the  wo^ 
8.  JesB 

came  do^ 


01 


death ;  V 
yealed  w 
mands  al 
the  Spiri 
vicar  as 
name, 
absence 
that  sea 
bumanit 
4.1:1 
the  dea« 
near  J< 


their  e; 

intervc 

^vine 

right' 

wiUb 

andt 

Apo« 

men 

thus 

take 

eom 

6 

fer 

Ch 

of 

ou 


TUB  ASCENSION. 


805 


In  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost.  He  who  shall  believe  and  be  baptized,  shall  be  saved; 
but  he  who  shall  not  believe,  shall  be  condemned.  Teach 
them,  therefore,  to  observe  every  thing  that  I  have  command* 
ed  yon ;  for,  behold,  I  am  always  with  you,  even  to  the  end 
of  the  world." 

8.  Jesns  Christ  had  now  finished  the  work  for  which  he 
came  down  from  heaven  and  dwelt  among  ns.  He  had  en* 
lightened  the  world  by  his  doctrine,  and  redeemed  it  by  his 
death ;  by  his  miracles  he  had  confirmed  the  tmth  of  his  re- 
vealed religion ;  he  had  established  his  Ghnrch,  which  he  com- 
mands all  to  hear  ;  he  had  promised  to  assist  his  Ghnrch  with 
the  Spirit  of  Truth  to  the  end  of  ages ;  he  had  appointed  hia 
vicar  as  a  universal  pastor,  to  preside  over  the  Church  in  his 
name,  and  to  feed  his  flock,  both  sheep  and  lambs,  in  his 
absence :  nothing  more  remained  than  to  take  possession  of 
that  seat  of  bliss,  which  he  had  merited  for  his  own  sacred 
humanity  and  ns. 

4.  Therefore,  on  the  fortieth  day  after  his  resn)rrection  from 
the  dead,  he  led  his  disciples  forth  to  the  Mountain  of  Olives, 
near  Jerusalem;  he  there  gave  them  his  last  blessing  and 
raised  himself  (torn  the  earth  towards  heaven.  They  fixed 
their  eyes  upon  him,  as  he  ascended  through  the  air,  till  an 
intervening  cloud  received  him  out  of  their  sight.  By  his  own 
divine  power  he  ascended  into  heaven,  where  he  sits  at  the 
right  hand  of  the  Father ;  being,  as  he  always  shall  and  ever 
will  be,  the  same  consubstantial  and  co-eternal  God  with  hun 
and  the  Holy  Ghost  in  one  and  the  same  divine  nature.  The 
Apostles  kept  their  eyes  stili  fixed  on  heaven,  when  two  young 
men  in  white  apparel  came  and  asked  them  why  they  stood 
thus  gazing  at  the  heavens  :  the  Jesus  whom  yon  have  seen 
taken  from  you  into  heaven,  said  they,  will  in  the  some  maunei 
come  again  from  thence  to  judge  the  living  and  the  dead. 

5.  IMvial  is  the  pomp  of  this  vain  world  to  a  devout  and 
fervent  Christian,  when  he  contemplates  the  glory  of  Jesus 
Christ,  and  considers  the  never^nding  happiness  of  the  citizens 
of  heaven.  Heaven  is  the  ol>ject  on  which  we  ought  to  turn 
our  eyes;  thither  ought  our  hearts  and  wishes  to  aspira 


8oe 


TBB  TBISO  MIADRN. 


We  neror  should  foifcet,  that  the  country  to  which  wo  belong, 
that  the  bread  which  nourishes  our  sonls,  that  tho  }p  ire 
which  supports  our  yirtues,  that  the  happiness  whiih  "..  !u)]>o 
to  partake  of,  and  the  Head  of  which  we  are  mombers,  is  in 
heayen. 

0.  The  sphritual  treasures  which  we  hore  oi\)oj,  and  the 
temporal  advantages  which  we  receive  t'roui  creator cs,  are 
appointed  us  by  Almighty  Ood,  liS  helps  towardi  our  las' 
end.  It  was  to  open  us  an  entrance  into  heayen  that  Christ 
shed  his  blood ;  it  was  to  dra^-  our  hearts  thither  that  he 
ascended  before  the  last  day.  The  heayonly  princes  were 
commanded  to  lift  up  their  eternal  gates,  and  the  King  of 
glory,  the  Lord  of  powers,  entered  into  his  kingdom,  which 
he  had  acquired  by  his  sufferings  and  death. 


Oreat^ 


95.  Thb  Tbavbllbb. 

1.  Tl'EN  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
J-i  I  sit  me  down  a  pensiye  hour  to  spend ; 
And  placed  on  high,  aboye  the  storm's  career. 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear— 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The  pomp  of  kings,  the  shepherd's  humbler  pride. 

S.      When  thus  cre.r,io'a*n    ' ,    us  aroo.  i  combine. 

Amidst  the  store  .  uiuid  tliankless  pride  repine? 

Say,  should  the  philosophio  mind  disdaia 

That  good  whidi  makes  each  humbler  bosom  yain  ? 
8.  Let  school-tanght  pride  dissemble  aU  it  can, 

These  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 

And  wiser  he  whose  sympatt3tic  mind 

Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
4.  Ye  glittering  towi:;s  with  wealth  and  splendor  crown'd ; 

Te  fields  when  summer  spreads  profusion  round ; 

Te  lakes  whose  ressels  catch  the  busy  gale ; 

Te  bending  swains  that  dress  the  flowery  yaie; 


ro  belong, 

tho  gi  ice 

htn,  u  \n 

and  the 
;ard8,  are 

oar  las 
At  Christ 
'  that  he 
iCes  were 

King  of 
m,  which 


ni'd; 


THB 


MOOaiBtt  WAM  1«   «*^1»- 


807 


T,or  me  your  l^^^^Jl^i::^^.  mine! 
Ore»tlon'«  heir,  the  wono,  mi- 


Ho«a. •««  hoMd.  "r™^  ""^^uag  .till ! 
Yet  .an  h.  •W»'/"^J^o»  Z 

^::sx':s!^>s:tTeav.uto»»»««-. 

96.  Tra  MoowBH  Wam  is  S""- 


808 


THE  THIRD  READER. 


Moors  from  Africa,  who  had  oyemin  their  faur  country  and 
reduced  the  Christian  inhabitants  of  many  of  its  provinces  to 
a  state  of  abject  slavery. 

2.  They  had  possession  of  the  entire  province  of  Granada, 
one  of  the  fairest  and  most  fertile  portions  of  Spain,  and  in 
its  ancient  capital  they  had  established  their  seat  of  empire. 


The  palace  of  the  Moorish  kings  of  Granada,  called  the  Alham- 
bra,  is  still  to  be  seen  in  a  fnined  state  in  the  neighborhood  of 
that  city,  and  appears  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  magnifi 
•ent  boildings  ever  erected  for  a  royal  dwelling. 

3.  Bat  at  length  the  Christian  princes  of  Spain  succeeded 
in  conquering  those  rich  and  powerful  Moors,  whose  cruelty 
can  hardly  be  told  h  words.  The  honor  of  that  great  triumph 
was  resOTYed  for  Ring  Ferdinand  and  Queen  Isabella  his  wife. 


and  wlien  tl 
infidels,  they 
rightful  own 
dan  worsbil 
4.  There 
^lonao  d'i 
tues  and  g 
the  queen  i 
their  expt» 
to  his  Stan 
5.  The 
Christian 
Bacrifice  o 
^and  wf 
but  the  q 

self  pla«* 
defend  it 
to  do  80, 


THE   MONKS  OF   OLD. 


309 


AlUd'Ag»il«.toting«sbM«m«^     He  it  ^«  whom 
taes  md  gte»t  v.aor  «  for  ?»  »«  ^^  ^^^  „„„  and 

the  queen  inttosted  Witt,  to  fi.^«^_^j,  i^neiiately  flocked 

ClirUtian  army  m  bra  "T"™™ '      j  this  new  emsiide.   Jer 
^ce  of  fte  m«8  f' *«  ^^t'\^^;  dominions  at  the  t««., 

r^eT^:K'5-r,s::^d»^^^, 

t:r.o,«>dhetept  his  word.. 


97.  This  Mokks  ot  Ou>. 


To  hnm«.  softness  dead  ^^e*^  ^^,^  ^^ty. 

4': 
.  They  dwelt  lilce  shadows  on  the  earth, 

'f^^  from  the  penalties  «">^^i, 
lor  let  one  feeling  «nt»e^f*ty. 

*i,.m .  their  cloister'd  hearts 
*-k™^noUh:>Sr  pang  that  parts 

Beings  that  all  »ff««'"''^»  ^  udtM  in  mity. 


810 


THB  THIRD   RBADSB. 


4.  The  tomb  to  them  was  not  a  place 
To  drown  the  best-loved  of  theur  race, 
And  blot  out  each  sweet  memory's  trace 

In  didl  obscurity. 


5.  To  them  it  was  the  calmest  bed 
That  rests  the  aching  human  head : 
They  look'd  with  envy  on  the  dead, 

And  not  with  agony 

6.  No  bonds  they  felt,  no  ties  they  broke, 
No  music  of  the  heart  they  woke, 
When  one  brief  moment  it  bad  spoke. 

To  lose  it  suddenly. 

1.  Peaceful  they  liyed, — peaceful  they  died  j 
And  those  that  did  their  fate  abide 
Saw  Brothers  wither  by  their  side 

In  all  tranquillity. 

8.  They  loved  not,  dream'd  not, — ^for  their  sphere 
Held  not  joy's  visions ;  but  the  tear 

Of  broken  hope,  of  anxious  fear. 

Was  not  their  miserf. 

9.  I  envy  them,  those  monks  of  old. 
And  when  their  statues  I  behold. 
Carved  in  the  marble,  calm  and  cold. 

How  true  an  effigy ! 

10.  I  wish  my  heart  as  calm  and  still 

To  beams  that  fleet,  and  blasts  ihat  chill, 
And  pangs  that  pay  joy's  spendthrift  ill 

With  bitter  usury, 


w 


ly. 


ire 


89TJ, 


yi 


THB  8A0RBD  PICTURES. 


81i 


98.  Thb  Saobkd  PicrruBBS. 


9S.   i-BK  «*-""- 

«^  TTildebrand,  had  beefl  deeply 
.  VALIANT  kri^W-nam^^^d^^^^^^  ^ 

niffbt  •  and  at  dawn  of  day  n«  b  ^^  ^^g  yery  early,  no 

t  CTv8  of  the  morning  sm-  g.  presented  out 

8a^i„rrtbe  pnrple  robe  o  soon.  Wo«  ^^^_        ,^^ 

"'^Pan^dS  tr:i  tSU««on>t-..se 
and  prayed. 


I 


812 


TnF,  THIRD   BBADEB. 


Now,  when  he  left  the  chapel,  he  met  serrants  coming  from 
Bnmo,  who  said:  "We  seek  you.  Our  lord  demands  to 
Bpeak  with  you ;  he  is  dangerously  ill."  And  he  went  with 
them. 

When  Hildebrand  entered  the  hall  where  the  knight  lay, 
Bruno  said :  "  Forgive  me  my  injustice.  Alas,  I  have  injured 
thee  deeply  1" 

4.  Then  the  other  said  kindly :  "  My  brother,  I  have  noth 
ing  to  forgive  thee."  And  they  grasped  each  other's  .hand, 
embraced  and  comforted  each  other,  and  parted  in  shicere 
amity. 

Then  the  light  of  evening  was  more  lovely  to  the  retnmmg 
knight  than  the  light  of  the  morning  had  been. 


99.  Tbuth  in  Pabbnthbses. 

1.  T  REALLY  take  it  very  kind, 
J.  This  visit,  Mrs.  Skinner  1 

I  have  not  seen  you  such  an  age — 
(The  wretch  has  come  to  dinner !) 

2.  "  Your  daughters,  too,  what  loves  of  girls^i 

What  heads  for  painters'  easels  I 
Oome  here  and  kiss  the  infant,  dears, — 
(And  give  it,  perhaps,  the  measles  I) 

8.  "  Your  charming  boys  I  see  are  home 
From  Beverend  Mr.  RussePs ; 
'Twas  very  kind  to  bring  them  both,— 
(What  boots  for  my  new  brussels !) 

4.  "  What  I  Uttle  Olara  left  at  home  7 
Well  now  I  call  that  shabby : 
I  should  have  loved  to  kiss  her  so,— 
(A  flabby,  dabby  babby  I) 

6.  "  And  Mr.  S.,  I  hope  he's  well, 
Ah  I  though  he  lives  so  handy, 


JAPANESE  MABTYB8. 


818 


ig  from 
uds  to 
Qt  with 

ht  lay, 
injared 

e  noth 
3, hand, 
sincere 

nrning 


He  never  now  drops  in  to  sup, — 
(The  better  for  oar  brandy !) 

6.  ''  Come,  take  a  seat — I  long  to  hear 
About  Matilda's  marriage ; 
You're  come  of  course  to  spend  the  day  !- 
(Thank  Heaven,  I  hear  the  carriage  I) 

t.  What!  must  yon  go?  next  time  I  hope 
You'll  give  me  longer  measure ; 
Nay — I  shall  see  you  down  the  stairs— 
(With  most  uncommon  pleasure !) 

8.  "Good-byl  good-by!  remember  all. 
Next  time  you'll  take  your  dinners! 
(Now,  David,  mind  I'm  not  at  home 
In  future  to  the  Skinners !) 


i 


100.  Japanese  Mabtybs. 

THE  martyrdom  of  Don  Simon,  a  Japonian  nobleman  and 
valiant  soldier,  was  full  of  a  noble  interest;  he  was  con* 
demned  to  be  beheaded :  when  the  tidings  were  brought  him  in 
the  evening,  he  put  on  his  best  robes,  as  if  he  had  been  going 
to  a  banquet ;  he  took  leave  of  his  mother,  his  wife,  and  family ; 
they  wept  bitterly,  but  Agnes  would  not  be  comforted. 
This  beautiful  and  great  soul  fell  presently  on  her  knees, 
praying  him  to  cut  off  her  hair,  for  fear,  she  added, "  that  if  1 
chance  to  survive  you,  the  world  may  think  I  have  a  mind  to 
marry  again." 

2.  He  told  her  that  after  his  death  she  was  free  to  take 
her  choice.  "Oh,  my  lord,"  replied  Agnes,  "I  vow,  in  the 
presence  of  God,  I  never  wUl  have  any  spouse  but  you."  He  < 
then  desired  his  three  cousins  to  be  called  in.  "  Am  I  not  a 
happy  man,"  he  said,  "to  die  a  martyr  for  Jesus  Christ?  what 
ean  I  do  to  be  grateful  for  so  singular  a  favor?"     "  Pray  fo( 

u 


314 


THU  THIRD   KEADKR. 


US,  we  beseech  you,"  said  one  of  thorn,  "  when  you  come  to 
heaven,  that  we  may  partake  with  you  in  your  glory."  "  Pre- 
pare to  meet  me,"  he  replied,  "  for  it  will  not  be  long  before 
you  follow." 


3.  Having  foretold  them  what  soon  came  to  pass,  they 
all  fell  on  their  knees,  the  mother,  the  wife,  and  the  relatives 
reciting  aloud  the  Confiteor ;  this  done,  he  entertained  himself 
a  while  interiorly  with  God :  then  desiring  the  picture  of  our 
Saviour  to  be  brought,  they  walked  down  into  the  hall  where 
he  was  to  suffer,  each  bearing  a  crucifix  and  a  lighted  torch 
in  their  hands. 

4.  Many  now  gathermg  around  him,  gave  way  to  their 
sorrow.  "  Weep  not  for  me,"  said  the  martyr,  "  for  this  is  the 
happiest  moment  of  my  whole  life ;"  then  kneeling  down,  his 
head  was  struck  off  at  one  biow,  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  his 

age.  . 

Agnes  looked  at  the  scene,  pale  and  immovable ;  she  then 
knelt,  and  gazed  on  the  face  for  some  time,  and  kissed  it,  and 


: 


.i.- .^mjuammtmttimtum 


to 
fre- 
3re 


JAFANBSE  MARTYBS. 


315 


leir 
the 
his 
his 

len 
nd 


bathed  it  with  her  tears.  "  Oh !  my  hasband,  who  had  the 
honor  of  dying  for  him  who  first  died  for  thee — oh  I  glorioub 
martyr,  now  that  thoa  reignest  with  God  in  heaven,  be  mind- 
fnl  of  thy  poor  desolate  wife,  and  call  her  to  thyself/'  Hei 
words  were  like  a  prediction. 

5.  An  intunate  friend  of  Simon,  of  the  name  of  Don  John, 
a  man  of  rank,  was  also  beheaded ;  leaving  his  widow  Magda- 
lene, and  his  little  son  Lewis,  a  boy  abont  seven  or  eight  years 
of  age.  In  the  course  of  a  few  days  they  were  all  called  upon 
to  follow  the  dead.  Four  crosses  were  erected  at  the  place 
of  execution,  to  which  they  were  borne  in  palanqums.  The 
first  they  crucified  was  the  mother  of  Don  Simon,  a  person  of 
heroic  resolution ;  the  next  was  the  Lady  Magdalene. 

6.  Her  own  torment  was  nothing  to  what  she  endured  from 
that  of  the  little  Lewis,  whom  they  executed  in  her  sight. 
The  child,  seeing  them  tie  bis  mother,  went  of  his  own  accord 
to  the  executioners,  praying  them  to  fasten  him  to  his  cross : 
"What,"  said  they,  "are  not  you  afraid  to  die?"  "No," 
replied  the  child,  "  I  fear  it  not ;  I  will  die  with  my  mother." 
Then  the  executioners  took  and  tied  him  to  his  cross,  that 
stood  right  over-agaiost  that  of  Magdalene ;  but  drawing  the 
cords  too  tight,  he  gave  a  shriek.  Bemg  raised  aloft  in  the 
air,  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  mother,  and  she  hers  on  hun. 
"  Son,"  said  she,  "  we  are  going  to  heaven ;  take  courage :  say 
Jesus,  Mary." 

7.  The  child  pronounced  them,  and  the  mother  repeated ; 
and  these,  their  last  words,  were  spoken  with  so  much  solem- 
nity and  sweetness,  that  all  wept  around.  After  they  had 
hung  in  this  manner  for  some  time,  one  of  the  executioners 
struck  at  him,  but  the  lance  slipping  on  one  side,  he  missed 
his  blow.  However,  if  he  spared  the  child,  it  is  certam  he 
pierced  the  mother  to  the  heart.  Fearing  that  he  might  be 
daunted  by  such  a  stroke,  she  called  to  hun, "  Lewis,  take 
courage ;  say,  Jesus,  Mary." 

8.  The  child  seemed  not  in  the  least  dismayed,  and  neither 
gave  a  shriek  nor  shed  a  tear,  but  waited  patiently  till  the  ex- 
ecutioner, redoubling  his  blow,  pierced  him  through.  The 
Japonian  crosses  have  a  seat  in  the  middle,  for  the  sufferer  te 


#>• 


816 


THE  TIIIBD  RBA.9ER. 


lit  on ;  ir'^ead  of  nailing  tho  body,  they  bind  the  hands  and 
feec  with  cords,  and  place  an  iron  ring  about  the  neck ;  that 
done,  the  cross  is  raised  aloft  in  the  air,  and  after  a  few  min 
utes,  the  executioners,  with  sharp  lances  fit  for  the  purpose, 
strike  right  at  the  heart  through  the  left  side.  By  this  means, 
the  sufferer  dies  almost  in  an  instant  in  a  deluge  of  his  own 
blood. 

There  was  now  only  remaining  the  ardent  and  beautiful 
Agnes,  whom  they  reserved  to  the  last;  she  knelt  on  the 
bank,  and,  clasping  her  hands  on  her  breast,  blessed  God 
aloud  for  permitting  her  to  die  on  the  wood  of  the  cross, 
which  himself  had  sanctified  by  his  precious  death. 

9.  She  then  made  a  sign  for  the  officers  to  tie  her :  but  not 
a  man  approached  her,  all  were  so  oyerwhelmed  with  grief. 
She  called  to  them  again,  and  still  they  stood  immovable  like 
statues :  she  then  extended  herself  in  the  best  manner  she 
could  on  the  cross.  Some  idolaters  that  were  present,  between 
the  hopes  of  a  reward  and  the  menaces  of  the  officers,  stepped 
up  and  bound  her  fast,  and  then  raised  her  aloft  in  the  air. 

10.  The  spectators,  seeing  a  person  of  her  quality,  so  deli- 
cate and  tender,  ready  to  suffer  for  no  other  crime  but  that 
of  being  true  and  faithful  to  her  God,  could  not  keep  from 
tears.  Some  wept  most  bitterly ;  others  again  covered  their 
faces,  and  were  not  able  to  look  up  at  such  a  spectacle,  which 
was  ready  to  tear  their  hearts  to  pieces. 

11.  In  the  mean  while  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  heaven,  and 
prayed  without  intermission,  in  expectation  of  the  fatal  blow ; 
but  not  one  offered  to  do  her  this  favor,  insomuch  that  the 
same  persons  that  bound  her  were  forced  to  take  up  the  exe- 
cutioners' lances,  and  do  the  office  for  them ;  but  being  quite 
inexperienced,  they  gave  her  blow  upon  blow  before  she  was 
dead. 

12.  The  lady  all  the  while  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  picture  of 
Christ,  upon  which  her  husband  had  gazed  so  fondly  before 
his  death,  and  which  she  held  in  her  hand.  Many  Christians 
forced  their  way  through  the  crowd,  and  without  regard  to 
the  soldiers'  threats,  dipped  their  handkerchiefs  in  the  blood, 
and  cut  off  small  pieces  of  the  robos. 


Bhovi 
She's 


Bun 

I  ho 
Bill, 
Gre 

Th« 

W 


S'ji-t'.-  »-J-—  "■  '^' 


V-.I'JBL. '- ii-jaun'J'""!  ^  T* 


PAIN  IN   A  PLEASUBEB0A1. 


817 


and 
that 
mm 
)08e, 
lieans, 
own 


101.  Fain  in  a  Flbasubb-Boat. 

» 
Boatman. 
Shovk  off  there  I — ship  the  radder,  Bill — cast  off  I  she's  under 
wayl 

Mrs.  F. 
She's  under  what  ? — I  hope  she's  not  {  good  gracious,  what  a 
spray  I 

BOATICAN. 

Run  out  the  jib,  and  rig  the  boom  1  keep  clear  of  those  two 
brigs! 

Mrs.  F. 
I  hope  they  don't  intend  some  joke  by  rnnnmg  of  their  rigs  I 

Boatman. 
Bill,  shift  them  bags  of  ballast  aft — she's  rather  out  of  trim  I 

Mrs.  F. 
Great  bags  of  stones  I  they're  pretty  things  to  help  a  boat  to 
swim. 

Boatman. 
The  wind  is  firesh — ^if  she  don't  scud,  it's  not  the  breeze's 
fanltl 

Mrs.  F. 
Wind  fresh,  indeed,  I  never  felt  the  air  so  full  of  satt  I 


818 


THB  THIRD  BEAOBB. 


Boatman. 

That  schooner,  Bill,  harn't  left  the  roads,  with  oranges  and 
nuts! 

Mrs.  F. 
If  seas  have  roads,  they're  very  rongh — I  never  felt  snch  rots  I 

BOATKAN. 

It's  neap,  ye  see,  she's  heavy  lado,  and  couldn't  pass  the  bar. 

Mrs  R 
The  bar!  what,  roads  with  turnpikes  too?  I  wonder  wherv 
they  are  I 

Boatman. 
Ho  I  brig  ahoy  1  hard  up  I  hard  up  I  that  lubber  cannot 
steer! 

Mrs.  F. 
Yes,  yes, — ^hard  up  upon  a  rock  I    I  know  some  danger's 

near] 
Gracious,  there's  a  wave !  its  coming  in  j  and  roaring  like  a 
bull! 

Boatman. 
Nothing,  ma'am,  but  a  little  slop  1  go  large.  Bill  I  keep  her 
fnlll 

Mrs.  F. 
What,  keep  her  full  I  what  daring  work  I  when  full  she  must 
go  down! 

Boatman. 
Why,  Bill,  it  lulls !  case  off  a  bit — it's  coming  off  the  town ! 
Steady  your  hehn  I  w;e'll  clear  the  Pint!  lay  right  for  yonder 
pioJcl 

Mrs.  F. 
Be  steady — ^well,  I  hope  they  can !  but  they've  got  a  pint  of 
drink  1 

Boatman. 
Bill,  give  that  sheet  another  haul — she'll  fetch  it  up  tliis 
reach. 

Mrs.  F. 
I'm  getting  rather  pale,  I  know,  and  they  see  it  by  that 
speech! 
«   I  wonder  what  it  is,  now,  but — I  never  felt  so  queer  I 


'.IUW»'  '-  J„IW.-II  J  I  *ll'-l« 


PAIN  IN  ▲  PLBASUBB-BOAT. 


819 


and 
irntflf 
bar. 

■  '* 

innot 


Boatman. 

Bill,  mind  yonr  luff— why  Bill,  I  say,  she'a  yawing— keep  her 
nearl 

Mrs.  p. 
Keep  near!  we're  going  farther  off;  the  land's  behind  oar 
*       backs. 

Boatman. 
Be  easy,  ma'am,  it's  all  correct,  that's  only  canse  we  tacks ; 
We  shall  have  to  beat  aboat  a  bit, — Bill,  keep  her  oat  to  seu. 

Mbs.  F. 
Beat  who  aboat?  keep  who  at  sea? — ^how  black  they  look  at 
me  I 

Boatman. 
It's  veering  roand — I  knew  it  woald !  oiT  with  her  head! 
stand  by  I 

Mrs.  F. 
Off  with  her  head!  whose?  where?  what  with? — an  axe  I 
seem  to  spy. 

Boatman. 

She  cannot  keep  her  own  yoa  see ;  we  shall  have  to  pall  her 
inl 

Mrs.  F. 
They'll  drown  me,  and  take  all  I  have !  my  life's  not  worth  a 
pin! 

Boatman. 
Look  oat  yon  know,  be  ready.  Bill— just  when  she  takes  the 
sand! 

Mrs.  F. 
The  sand — O  Lord !  to  stop  my  month !  how  eveiy  thing  is 

plann'd! 

Boatman. 
The  handspike,  Bill — qaick,  bear  a  hand !  now,  ma'am,  jnst 
step  ashore. 

Mrs.  F. 
What  I  ain't  I  going  to  be  kill'd — and  welter'd  in  my  gore  ? 
Well,  Heaven  be  praised  I  bat  I'll  not  go  a  sailing  any  more 


8S0 


TBB  THIRD  BRADBB. 


102.  Flowbbs  for  thb  Altar  ;  or,  Plat  and  Earnbr. 

DRAXATia  PIBSONA 

HiLur,  ton  jttn  old.  Aorh,  Mttn  jun  old. 

OtwAts,  nln«  jun  old.  Fathbb  Domiiiio. 

Tb«  Oardeur,  Miller,  iu.  • 

Scene  I. 

mUUstroam,  with  ftweir,  down  which  the  water  rushes  toworde  the  mill. 
Aawn  orouee  a  little  bridge,  listens,  and  then  searches  for  a  while  among 
the  sedges  on  the  bank.  At  length  she  utters  an  exclamation  of  Joy,  and 
at  the  same  moment  a  beautiful  bantam  hen  rushes  oui.,  ducking. 

Agnea.  Five  eggs,  and  all  my  own  1  One  each,  for  papa, 
mamma,  Helen,  Oswald,  and  myself!  Yet,  no;  poor  old 
Kitty  Oliver  shall  haye  this  one,  and  I  will  boil  it  for  her  in 
her  Uttle  tin  saucepan.  0  sly  Bantam,  naughty  Bruydre,  to 
make  your  nest  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  place  I  Had  I  not 
been  up  so  very  early  this  morning,  and  heard  yoitr  "  Cluck, 
duck !''  you  would  have  cheated  us  all. 

Hden  and  Oswald  coil,  Agnes  1  Agnes ! 

Agnea.  They  are  coming  this  way,  and  calling  me.  I  will 
not  tell  them  of  my  good  fortune  until  breakfast-time,  and 
then  it  will  be  such  a  pleasant  surprise.  They  will  all  won- 
der so  to  see  Brnydre's  eggs,  but  they  will  never  guess  where 
she  had  hidden  them. 

£nter  Hblsm  and  Oswald.    Aonm  hastily  gathers  up  her  apron 

with  the  eggs. 

OsvoaJd.  Agnes,  we  want  you.  We  have  invented  a  new 
game ;  and  while  we  are  planning  all  the  rules  and  the  meet- 
ing-places, and  so  on,  you  must  gather  some  sedges  for  us. 

Agnea.  What  can  you  want  with  sedges? 

Oawdd.  What  is  that  to  yon  ?  Ton  will  know  by  and  by 
when  play-time  comes ;  so  lose  no  time,  if  you  please,  but  do 
as  you  are  bid. 

Agnea.  In  a  minute.  Just  let  me  run  to  the  house  and 
back.    I  will  fly  as  fast  as  a  bird. 

Oawald.  Stuff  and  nonsense  I  Who  can  wait  for  you? 
Breakfast  will  be  ready  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  we  have 
invented  a  new  game,  I  tell  you ;  so  go  and  gather  the  sedges. 


Agne% 
have  in  n 
know  it  p 

Oavodi 

your  aprc 

altar,  an 

have  beei 

BO  you  ai 

Agnea 

that  par 

Bhe  turns 
takes,  r< 
Into  tea 

Bden 

,     Bruyftre 

than  a  ^ 

Oawc 

she  was 

Selfish 

Hde 
She  is 
some  c 

Ost 

eggat 
[flea 


Ai 
wiU^ 

0 
Brii 
tihei 
you 


IXOWBBS  FOB  TBB  ALTAB. 


821 


po 


iljjmes  [imploringly].  0  Oswald,  pray  let  me  take  what  I 
have  in  my  apron  to  the  honse.  It  is  a  secret;  yoa  shall 
know  it  presently,  but  let  me  go. 

Osvoald.  I  know  what  it  is,  by  the  way  you  are  holding  up 
yoor  apron.  Yoa  have  been  gathering  some  flowers  for  the 
altar,  and  wish  to  make  a  mystery  of  it ;  bat  there  woald 
have  been  plenty  of  time  before  four  o'clock  to  gather  them, 
so  yoa  are  a  great  simpleton  to  do  it  so  early. 

Agnes  [aaide].  The  eggs  at  breakfast  will  set  him  right  in 

that  particular,  so  I  will  say  no  more  now,  bat  ran  for  it. 

Bha  turns  quioklj,  »nd  runs  m  fiwt  m  she  can.  Oswald  pnrsn«B,  over- 
takes, roughly  seizes  her  apron,  and  breaks  all  th»  eggs.  Agnes  bursts 
into  tears. 

Helen.  O  Oswald  1  what  have  yoa  done?  Those  mast  be 
Braydre's  eggs,  that  Agnes  has  been  banting  for  for  more 
than  a  week  I 

Oswald.  Then  why  did  she  not  say  so  at  once?  I  suppose 
she  was  afraid  I  should  want  one  of  them  for  my  breakfast. 
Selfish  little  animal  1 

Aeins  sobs  violently,  but  says  nothing. 

Helen.  Gome,  come,  Oswald,  do  not  be  unfair  to  Agnes. 
She  is  a  Aretful  little  thing,  with  plenty  of  faults,  as  well  as 
some  of  her  neighbors,  but  she  is  not  a  greedy  child. 

AavEs  smiles,  and  looks  grateftilly  at  Hium. 

Oswald.  In  that  case  it  is  a  pity  certainly  for  ua  that  the 
eggs  are  broken,  and  a  greater  pity  to  cry  about  the  matter. 
[He  sings']: 

"Hompty  Dumpty  sat  on  a  wall, 
Humpty  Dnmpty  had  a  great  fall ; 
Not  all  the  Jdng's  horses  nor  all  the  king's  men 
Could  set  Humpty  Dumpty  up  agiun." 

Agnes  {Umghing].  That  is  very  true,  Oswald,  dear ;  so  wo 
will  think  no  more  of  our  Humpty  Dumpty's  misfortunes. 

Bhe  runs  to  the  brook,  and  begins  to  gather  sedges. 

Ostoald.  By  the  way,  tho&e  sedges  are  not  quite  the  thing. 
Bring  me  the  tallest  flags  and  bulrushes  you  can  find :  pull 
them  up  close  t)  the  root.    Every  one  must  be  as  tall  as 

yourself. 

14» 


322 


THB  THIBD  SEADBB. 


Agnea.  They  are  very  hard  to  break  off ;  I  am  afiraid  they 
will  cat  my  hands. 

Oswald.  Oh,  that  is  a  trifle.  Yon  most  pull  the  harder ; 
and  when  yon  hare  finished,  lay  them  in  a  handle  at  the  door 
of  the  sammer-hoase,  that  when  the  recreation-hoar  comes,  we 
may  begm  without  loss  of  time. 

Agnea.  I  wonder  what  the  play  is  to  be. 

Eden.  I  will  tell  yon  all  aboat  it  at  breakfast-tune. 

Oswald.  And  remember,  that  if  you  cry  at  every  word  that 
is  spoken,  and  if  yoa  complain  when  the  flags  cat  yoar  hands, 
yoa  will  never  make  one  in  oar  game.  None  but  the  very 
bravest  of  the  brave  can  learn  to  play  with  as  at  that. 

Exeont  Hxuir  and  Oswald  ;  manet  Aomts,  who  gathen  flags  and  bolrnsh- 
es,  and  carries  them  to  the  summer-honse.  She  performs  her  task  with 
mach  perseverance  and  patience,  and  never  looks  at  her  bleeding  hands 
until  the  breakfast-bell  is  heard. 

Agnes.  There  is  the  beU  for  breakfast,  and  1  have  not 
gathered  my  flowers,  though  I  thought  of  them  the  last  thing 
at  night  and  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Well,  well; 
patience  was  my  virtne  for  yesterday's  practice,  and  it  cer- 
tainly was  not  mach  tried  1 1  mast  keep  it  until  after  break- 
fast, and  then  choose  another  for  to-day. 

She  dips  her  hands  into  the  stream  to  wash  them,  lays  her  bundle  at  the 
door  of  the  summer-house,  and  trips  gayly  homeward. 


SCBNB  II. 
A  flower  garden.    Enter  the  three  children. ' 

Agnes.  Oh,  yes,  it  will  be  lovely  I  To  walk  m  procession 
and  sing  the  litanies  with  flags  in  our  hands  to  look  l^e  palms! 
Thank  yoa  again  and  again,  dear  Helen,  for  inventing  such  a 
iweet  play. 

Oswald.  It  was  not  Helen  who  mvented  it ;  it  was  I. 

ffelen.  For  shame,  Oswald ;  how  can  yon  say  so  I 

Oswald.  Well,  though  you  may  have  tkougJU  of  it  first,  I 
put  your  thought  into  shape  for  you. 

Agnes.  Thank  you,  then,  dear  Oswald. 

OsuHild  [to  Agnes'],  Now,  mind,  we  only  allow  yoa  a 


32 


mmmm^ 


FLOWEltS  FOB  THE   ALTAB. 


323 


they 


lerj 

ioor 

we 


that 
ids, 
rerjr 


quarter  of  an  hour  to  gather  your  flowers;  and  the  very 
moment  I  whistle,  you  must  come  and  join  us  in  the  forum. 

Agnea.  The  forum  1    What  is  that? 

Oswald.  Why  the  grass-plot,  to  be  sure,  stupid.  Do  you 
not  remember  that  the  summer-house  is  the  temple  of  Jupiter, 
where  the  martyr's  are  to  refuse  to  offer  sacrifice :  and  that 
the  weather-cock  is  the  Roman  eagle,  and  the  grass-plot  is — 

Agues.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  all  about  it  now  I  I  promise 
to  join  yon  when  you  whistle  for  me  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

[Exeunt  Helen  and  Oswald. 

Agnes  Iwhile  putting  on  her  garden-apron  and  gloves,  and 
taking  oui  her  Jlotoer-shears'].  Oh,  happy  day,  happy  day  1 
To  dress  our  Lady's  altar  with  my  own  roses,  all  my  own  1 
Thirteen  wMte  ones  that  I  counted  yesterday,  with  ever  so 
many  buds,  and  twenty-five  red  ones ;  and  then  the  moss-rose 
tree,  that  seems  to  have  come  out  on  purpose  for  to-day,  it  is 
so  full  of  buds  I  How  beautiful  they  will  look  t  Our  Blessed 
Lady  shall  have  them  all — every  one ;  I  would  not  give  one  to 
anybody  else  to-day  for  the  world — unless,  perhaps, — [she 
pauses  a  moment^  and  then,  clapping  her  hands  together, 
adds  with  a  happy  smile  and  upward  glance"]  no,  not  even  to 
Father  Dominic.  This  is  far  better  than  even  our  new  play  r 
this  is  happiness,  while  that  is  only  pleasure  [she  looks 
thoughtful,  and  a  cloud  comes  over  her  countenance]. 

Fathxb  Doimno  is  seen  approaching  with  his  brevisry  in  his  hand. 

Agnes  [stiU  musing].  There  is  Father  Dominic.  I  would 
ask  him,  only  he  is  saying  his  ofBce. 

Fatbbr  Dohinio  crosses  the  path,  and,  without  speaking,  holds  oat  his 
finger,  which  Aokxb  takes,  looking  up  in  his  face,  and  walking  beside 
him  Sot  a  few  minutes  in  silence. 

Father  D.  [shuts  his  hook  and  smiles  gently  at  Agnes]. 
Well,  my  cuild,  what  is  it  you  are  wishing  to  say  to  me  ? 

Agnes  [aside].  How  is  it  he  knows  so  well  wiiat  I  have  in 
my  thoughts?  [aloud]  Father,  is  there  any  harm  in  playii^ 
ut  martyrs  ? 

Father  D.  You  must  first  explain  to  me  a  little  what  sort 
of  a  game  that  is. 

Agnes.  We  are  to  pretend  that  we  are  some  of  the  holy 


824 


THK  TillKD  KBADEB. 


saints  who  suffered  martyrdom  under  the  emperor  Diocletian. 
Oswald  is  to  be  the  pagan  tyrant ;  the  snmmer-hoose  is  to  be 
the  Roman  temple,  where  He.en  and  myself  are  to  refuse  to 
offer  sacrifice  to  Jupiter ;  and  then  we  are  to  walk  to  prison 
and  to  death  singing  the  Litanies,  with  make-belieye  palms  in 
our  hands. 

Father  D.  And  you  wish  to  know  1 — 

Agnes.  Whether  the  sufferings  of  the  samts  is  not  too  holy 
a  subject  to  be  turned  into  play  ? 

Father  D.  Tell  me,  my  child,  which  is  the  most  holy  occu- 
pation that  children  can  have  ? 

Agnes  [after  thinking  a  while],  father,  you  have  told  me 
that,  with  simplicity  and  obedience,  every  occupation  is  holy 
to  a  little  child ;  so  that  play  in  play-time,  is  as  holy  as  study 
in  school-time,  or  even  as  meditation  itself. 

FatJier  D.  And  what  is  it  that  sanctifies  your  meditation, 
your  work,  and  your  play,  so  as  to  make  them  equally  accept- 
able to  our  Lord  ? 

Agnes.  The  constant  remembrance  of  his  adorable  presence. 

Father  D.  Go,  my  child,  to  your  play.  For  my  part,  I 
think  it  the  prettiest  I  have  heard  of  for  many  a  long  day,  and 
I  should  like  to  be  a  little  child  like  yon  for  a  while  to  join  in 
it.  Though  your  palms  are  make-believe  ones,  your  litanies 
are  real,  and  whenever  yon  sing  them  your  angel  guardian  joins 
his  voice  with  yours.  Who  knows  but  that  our  Lord,  when 
he  sees  little  children  amusing  themselves  with  good  disposi- 
tions, may  bestow  on  them  in  reality  the  spuit  of  martyrdom  f 

Agnes.  Do  people  need  the  spirit  of  martyrdom  now,  when 
there  are  no  longer  any  heathen  emperors?  What  is  the 
spirit  of  martyrdom.  Father  ? 

Father  D,  {sighing'].  Yes,  my  dear  child,  we  want  it  still, 
and  shall  do  so  to  the  end  of  the  world ;  but  if  yon  ask  me 
what  it  is,  I  answer  it  is  a  gift  from  Heaven,  to  be  obtained, 
ike  all  other  perfect  gifts,  by  asking  for  it.  Let  this  be  the 
virtue  yon  choose  for  to-day ;  pray  for  it,  my  dear  child,  and 
it  will  be  given  to  you  both  to  know  and  to  practise  it,  whether 
in  play-time  or  at  any  other  time,  should  the  occasion  be  given 
when  yon  need  it ;  and  this  may  be  sooner  than  yon  think 


,,«•.  •l»«t»*"*I^J(J**f^^^'^ 


FLOWEKS  FOR  THE  ALTAB. 


325 


rA\    I  am  afraid  of 
Affne,.  O  Father,  im  '^^'^^^l,  .UghOy  tot,  can 

^lij  tettato  from  i^-    O™*^"    ^^  u^t  h,  doe.  not 

A^^biBtleisheard. 

we  are  waiting.  ,   what  must  I  do  ?   I  prom- 

.  iZ^^Zl^'^-^'  ^^'  -'  '^'^  "^ 

^»SL....Keep.o„pr-^»r^;:''"*=^-; 
.disappototmeat  rather  than  b^kap^  ^.^^^^    ,.4  „„,  of 

4S^».  But  there  '««*7PXaoi»  Blessed  Lady  every 

^  '^^inpot'^y-  ^^yj^lm.    Offer  to  om 

rTerD.  Give  me  ^rj^^ttwa  for  the  altar.    IvriU 

Lori  every  Uttte  good  «t.»  «^  a^«  j„  t^,  ,^.^ 

house  i  whUe  yon  fo^T       y,^  th»t  do  ? 

I  yM  say  it  at  the  same  tm.e.    vv  ^^  ^. 

SCENE  III.  o    AM>» 

S^lflowerinborboBom. 


326 


TUB   THIUD  BEADEB. 


Oswald  [fieft'cely].  Gome  on,  wretches,  and  suffer  the  pan* 
ishment  which  Csesar  so  jostly  awards  to  yonr  crimes.  Thrice 
hare  yoa  impiously  refused  to  sacrifice,  and  thrice  shall  yon 
be  beaten  with  these  rods  before  the  axe  closes  your  miserable 
and  detestable  lires.  In  the  mean  time,  thrice  shall  yon  bd 
driven  through  the  city  and  round  its  boundaries,  that  every  Ro- 
man may  behold  yonr  ignominy,  and  may  tremble  at  yonr  fate. 

no  drives  them  before  him  for  eome  time,  and  then  stops  opposite  the 

summer-house. 

Oswald  to  Agnes.  Maiden,  your  tender  years  inspire  me 
with  some  compassion  for  your  folly :  only  bow  as  yon  pass 
that  standard,  and  I  will  intercede  for  you  with  the  emperor. 

Aemts  walks  erect  past  the  summer-house. 

Oswald.  WUt  thou  noi  uend  ? 

Agnes.  No. 

Helen  {pushing  her].  You  do  not  do  it  properly.  Make 
a  speech,  cannot  you  ?    Plain  "  no"  sounds  so  stupid. 

Agnes.  I  do  net  know  what  else  to  say. 

Helen.  You  ought  to  make  a  grand  speech,  to  defy  the 
lictor,  and  abuse  the  emperor  and  the  gods  of  Rome.  Yon 
shall  hear  by  and  by  how  /will  do  it. 

Oswald  [threatening  with  his  rod].  Once  for  all,  wUt  thou 
bow  to  the  standard  of  Rome,  to  the  royal  burd  of  Jupiter  7 

Agnes.  Never  1 

Oswald.  Here  then  will  I  teach  thee  what  it  is  to  be  ob- 
stinate.   [He  strikes  her  somewhat  harder  than  he  intended.'] 

The  Angel  guardian  of  Aems  approaobes  and  whispers  to  her  frequently 
during  this  scene  and  the  rest  of  the  drama.  The  words  of  the  Angel 
seem  to  AeNxs  thoughts,  for  she  does  not  see  the  Angel,  but  she  knows 
hfl  is  near,  and  speaks  to  him  also  in  thoughts. 

Angel.  Courage,  Agnes.  A  flower  for  the  altar  I 
Oswald  to  Helen.  To  thee  also  is  mercy  for  the  last  time 
offered.  Disgrace  not  a  name  held  in  honor  throughout  the 
world,  that  of  a  Roman  matron ;  nor  afford  a  pretence  to  thy 
children  to  desert  the  holy  temples,  where  their  an'^stors  wor- 
shiped, and  forsake  the  protecting  gods  of  their  hearths  and 
homes. 


naynm  w)»  wb  *«•"»• 


327 


.wrUlB.  they  '-"i*.^"'  ^'S^les  «e  dem  «f  *e  rf  st 

empMort  command  tto  mu  x 

Bae«  [ansrily].  "oj^' ^'r^Libte.    IH*  Agnes  much 

yon  do  it  again.  ^^y^   ^n  if  you  caU  me  Os- 

a  aowei  for  the  dtM.  ^  h»„  hurt  Helen  » 

^ene..  Dear  Oswald,  I  f«*  J,""       ftere  is  »  »lae  mark 

Uttt'mor.  th»>  yon  '»'»*«*•  t^'C.ff  tbis  part  of  «;« 
an  her  arm.    Had 'e  notbetor^^^  ^  ^^^^. 

TbcI^.  ^'"'•"7?:S^Uy;  .»itor»b.gi«^i'-'n 

OskmW.  Very  ^"W^^h  throw  away  my  fasces, 
kick  down  the  altar  of  Jnpiter,  and  tnro  ^.^^^^ 


828 


THB  THIRD  BKADBB. 


l8t  Child.  Well,  if  that  ain't  beautiful?  I  wonder  whether 
we  could  play  at  that,  or  whether  it  could  be  only  for  t^enile* 
folks. 

2d  OhUd.  Why  shouldn't  us?  If  us  can  sing  in  the 
church,  us  has  as  good  a  right  as  they  any  how  and  any- 
where. 

Angel  to  Agnes.  Love  the  poor  and  welcome  them  every- 
where. 

Agnes.  Perhaps  this  may  be  a  flower  for  the  altar. 

She  mns  to  her  mother,  who  is  sitting  reading  on  one  of  the  garden-seats, 
and  asks  permission  for  the  viJage  children  to  join  their  procession. 
This  being  granted,  Aonbs  tells  the  children  where  to  find  the  bundle 
of  palms,  and  again  takes  her  place  b.3hind  Hxuen.  They  walk  on, 
singing,  *' Virgo  slngularis,  inter  omnes  mitis,"  &o.,  &e.  Krmr  Ou* 
TKB,  who  is  weeding  aliower-bed,  looks  np  when  she  hears  their  voices, 
and  calls  to  the  gardener. 

Kitty.  John,  John,  come  here  and  hearkec.  You  have 
heard  me  tell  about  Miss  Agnes'  singing.  Gome  and  listen  to 
it  yourself,  and  you  will  say  with  me  that  there  is  not  one  of 
them  to  be  compared  with  her.  Bless  her  little  heart  I  she 
sings  like  an  angel,  as  she  ii. 

AsMxs,  who  hears  this,  blushes. 

Agnes  to  her  Angd  guardian.  If  it  will  be  a  flower  for  the 

altar  to  shun  human  praise,  let  me  sing  in  my  heart  only,  and 

do  yon  sing  for  me. 

The  Angel  sings,  and  Aonsb  keeps  silence.  The/  walk  along  the  bank  ol 
the  river,  singing  the  Litany  of  Loretto,  when  the  village  children  arrive 
carrying  their  mock  palms :  they  follow  the  procession,  and  join  in  the 
litany. 

Oswald  [turning  sharply  round].  Who  is  that  roaring  the 
Orapro  nobis,  spoilmg  our  singing? 

1st  OJMd  [slinking  back'].  'Twasn't  me,  sir. 

2d  Child  {pulling  his  forelock,  and  scrajping  a  rustic 
hoto].  I  humbly  az  your  pardon,  shr. 

3d  Child  [^frituMing].  I  don't  see.  what  harm  there  is, 
when  missis  gave  us  leave. 

ith  Child  [sturdily].  Mother  says  that  the  aay  may  come 
wheb  tltiB  quality  and  the  gentlefollcs  'twill  be  glad  enough  to 
have  the  prayers  of  the  poor 


i 


KL0WEB8  FOB  THE  ALTAR. 


829 


{ 


•  T    And  your  mother  Said 
BOH,  yott  W  ™   ^5tM  totmce,  nod  »ot  to  8U.g 

^„««J  <o  ^»n«.  0«  Lord  »»  »»'^  *XXds.       , 

oiota..""**"*""*"      ,11  sir  I  found  tto  to  the 

,,mffl»-ko«e,  who*  M«J;f°^  ™a  »»ted  these  row  to 
l^»he«  •  »nd  tWntoag  mayhap  yo»  ^^^^  ^th 

'd^I^Tfono'"  ?"<»»"'"•  ^'^•'°  „ 

■"•^Z«.  Oh.*hatUfa»o..  We;^'„t.»o 
a^,«,rittog  the  rfiltS  ome  ChriB«aa-«»rty«. 
r^ioB  to»itue«  *«  *Sf  I^DWor  Diocletian,  and  rone 

C.ymyp»to!  »»a*"T^  .»a  dl  the  rest,  except 
you  prevent  me  I    *""* 


1l 


".MBliilJP 


880 


THE  THIBD  BBADBB. 


Angel.  Ooarage  to  soffer  for  Justice'  sake  is  a  flower  worthy 
of  the  altar. 

Agnea.  Oswald,  you  shall  not  touch  one  of  those  flowers. 
They  are  neither  yours  nor  mine ;  they  were  given  to  our 
Blessed  Lady,  and  she  shall  have  them. 

OattxUd  [sarcaaHcally'].  Oh,  ho  I  A(,iies  turned  yixen,  and 
daring  to  dictate  to  me :  that  is  capital  I  It  is  very  remark- 
able that  I  don't  feel  more  fHghteit>?d.  Never  was  cooler  in 
my  life,  ha,  ha,  ha  I  [Me  holds  tha  basket  over  his  head  and 
laughs.] 

Angel.  To  bear  a£fronts  and  mockery  is  a  choice  flower,  and 
very  dear  to  our  Lord. 

Agnes  [meekly].  Oswald,  I  forgive  you  firom  my  heart; 
but  pray  give  me  those  flowers. 

The  poor  children  snrronnd  her. 

Omnes.  Never  mind.  Miss  Agnes,  yon  shall  have  plenty  of 
flowers  for  our  Lady's  altar ;  we  will  all  go  and  gather  the 
very  best  we  have,  and  will  be  back  again  in  ten  minntes. 
They  run  ia  diiferent  directions  to  gather  flowers  for  Agnes. 

Oswald.  There  I  do  yon  hear?  yon  will  have  twice  as  many 
as  these  in  ten  minntes,  so  don't  be  bothering  me  any  more, 
for  I  mean  to  have  them,  and  have  them  I  will. 

Angd  to  Agnes.  Zeal  for  the  honse  of  our  Lord  is  beauti- 
ful and  fragrant  to  him. 

Agnes.  No,  Oswald,  no :  yon  shall  not  even  tonch  them. 
What  is  given  to  the  Church  is  already  holy,  and  I  will  pray 
that  yon  may  not  have  one  of  them. 

Helen.  For  shame,  Oswald  I  What  a  coward  yon  are  to 
take  advantage  of  a  child  like  Agnes !  Put  down  the  basket 
this  instaat,  or  I  will  go  and  tell  mamma. 

Osuxdd  [angrily].  Qo  along  with  you  then,  and  tell  tales, 
and  see  what  you  will  get  by  them.  There  is  no  use  in  hold- 
ing out  your  hands,  Agnes ;  they  are  tied  fast  enough. 

He  runs  across  the  bridge  pursued  by  HxiucN.  When  he  has  reached  the 
other  side,  h<«  throws  the  basket  into  the  mill-stream,  and  Inaghs  aoom* 
taPf.    AoNxs  bur8t«  into  tears. 

Angel.  Pray  for  Oswald. 

Agnes.  And  do  yon  also  pray  for  him  as  I  do. 


P,^WBK8  FOB  THB  ALTAB. 


831 


M  she  is  carrlod  by  tM  «ro»f"r^    .« 

M,  hani>,  and  throm  hxm>af  on  mo  9 

««w.]  .„  t_^i  Motto  of  good  comsel 

pray  for  »s  I    M"«»  "'.''^■SLedte  «««» I'"' •^"": 
tW  goodness  o  AtogMy  Go^       j^^  „  y„„  c»  to  he 

iter  Dotninic.  ,„  mukes  towards  the  lane,  but 

miliar,  P"^""   ,       _m  mtpt  !»«• 


■gJLgtS 


382 


THE  TIIIUD  BBADEB. 


Hjilbm  sobs  heavily  Arom  titna  to  time,  and  they  walk  on  for  some  way 
without  saying  another  word. 

Helen.  Who  is  that  coming  across  the  field  towards  the 
road? 

Father  D.  It  is  Dick  the  miller ;  he  is  hurrying  towards  ns. 

Dick  shouts:  Not  that  way,  Father ;  to  the  house,  to  the 
house  I 

He  Uikes  off  hie  broad  hat,  and  wipes  his  fboe,  which  is  as  pale  at  death, 

and  quickly  Joins  them. 

FaJther  D.  To  the  house,  did  yon  say  ? 

Dick.  Tes,  Father  ;  she  is  found  and  carried  home. 

Father  D.  [aside].  I  dare  not  ask  the  particulars — I  see 
how  it  is. 

Helen.  Oh,  tell  me ;  is  she  dead  ? 

The  miller  looks  at  her  sorrowfully. 

Helen.  Oh,  let  me  go  on  by  myself :  I  cannot  wait  for  you  • 
I  must  go  and  comfort  mamma. 

Father  D.  Go,  my  child ;  and  may  your  ht  avenly  Mother 
help  you  in  youi*  task.  [Exit  Helen.'}  Now,  tell  me,  I  pray 
you,  every  particular.  Who  found  her?  Was  life  quite  ex- 
tinct when  she  was  taken  from  the  mill-wheel  ? 

Dick.  The  mill-wheel  t  [Ae  shudders.']  No,  thank  God,  we 
are  spared  that  trial  I  Her  cheek  is  as  smooth  as  a  lily  flower, 
and  as  pale,  and  there  is  neither  scratch  nor  stain  on  her  little 
white  limbs ;  and  there  she  lies,  with  a  smile  on  her  face  likp 
an  angel  asleep. 

Father  D.  God  is  mdeed  merciful  in  the  midst  of  his  judg* 
ments. 

Dick.  Here  is  how  it  was  :  when  Master  Oswald  told  me 
what  had  happened,  away  I  ran  at  once  to  the  mill  to  stop 
the  machinery ;  and  (God  forgive  my  want  of  faith  1)  I  said, 
"  Of  a  certamty  it  is  too  la^/C  ;  nothing  can  hinder  the  course 
of  a  mill-stream,  and  we  she  11  find  her  all  torn  and  mangled 
among  the  wheels."  No^  sir,  she  had  never  reached  the  mill. 
Away  I  went  up  the  river  t  )wards  the  bridge ;  and  there,  just 
in  the  bend,  on  the  side  next  the  mill,  there  she  lay  among  the 
flags  and  sedges.  The  current  must  have  carried  her  within 
reach  of  them,  for  she  had  caught  hold  of  them  with  the  clutch 


/ 


■  /' 


FL0WBB8   FOtt  TUB   ALTAB. 


888 


ol  death;  -d th. H .^ tbat^^^^^^^^^ 
o.er  the  weir.    She  had  bo  firm  ^^  ^  ^er  ; 

was  obUged  to  cut  t^«°^^«^.f '^^^^^^^  bound,  and  the  long 
and  to  Bee  her  lying  there.  7/*°^  °^'  7^  ^^en  playing  at  mar- 
LveB  in  them  that  t^^  ^^^^^^^^^^     on  he?  counte-nce  I 

tyrs  with,  and  with  ^^^l^'^'^^l.^  i  ^ere  to  Uve  a  hundred 

I  never  should  forget  that  «8^  "       ^  ^^,,^. 

Jears.  and  a  h^ed  more  on  ««» top  ot^  ^^^^^^^^^^       ^,, 
Faih^  2>.  That  Bght^  D^^.  ^      ^^^  attention  of  men 

eternity  in  heaven.    It  w  one 

and  of  angels.  ^  ^ .  for  close  beside  her, 

^^-  «"•  '"'  ^:f  J^'"t  if  tS!  Miss  Ag^es  ^  «ot 
oat  of  hte  seiaes,  for  J«J^  "*   .n^,  «>d  «»*  "^  "^^  *"* 
dead.    I  carried  her  ^^^J^'Zi^>^  eonnng  apo-  her. 
to  prepare  madam  for  «»  «»f°^t,„  the  bwtot  and  had  gone 
As  for  Master  Oswald,  he  !>»?'"*«";     „  „„ch  as  lifting  «P 
^;°„.    He  wanted  alongJ^lr'^;«^^,'Ji,,i^  the  basl»t 
his  eyes ,  but  I  saw  to  «»■?  '™',™  „ot  worthy  to  carry  rt, 
that  he  held  in »»»  ^^^  "jf,C     I  sh«kened  my  steps,  «r, 
,„,ta  I  lost  sight  of  tarn  oltoKJ*"-^  '^t  the  heart  to  thtok  ol 
„  I  came  near  ^'^»^'>Z2lil«tm,  head  how  I  shodd 
the  mother-a»d  1  was  Pjo*^^^,,  ^ho  should  I  see  but 
behave,  and  what  I  »'^*J'S,'JS  with  the  seryantx.  and 

.Mdarn  herself  commg  o"' »' *2»  „  coUeoted  and  oahn  as 
"alking  without  hurry  or  agitationjMC  ^^^ 

;hen  she  goes  up  «>«  "f  «  ^^  l^  unns,  oh,  so  t«toly  1 
^  to  me,  «xd  ifk^  ^Jf^ZA  through  the  p««h  ">»» 
^a  wato  stnught  «P  *«  f  I^;  "  the  foot  «f  *«  '^'  "^ 

rr^'S::^frhS^^.owr:ir^ 


BWBBSg 


834 


THR  THIRD   KBADER. 


himself  in  somo  corner  wlien  we  came  in,  for  I  heard  him 
sobbing.  When  we  left  the  church  I  followed  them  home. 
Madam  carried  Miss  Agnes  herself  np-stairs,  where  every  thing 
had  been  made  ready  to  receive  her ;  and  when  I  came  away, 
the  mother  and  the  old  narso.were  busy  chafing  the  body,  and 
nsing  all  the  means  possible  to  restore  Ufe,  if  snch  a  thing  were 
possible.  When  I  came  out  of  the  room  to  go  and  meet  you, 
sir,  there  was  Master  Oswald  outside  the  door  on  his  knees. 
He  will  not  stir  firom  that  spot ;  but  he  tells  everybody  that 
goes  by  that  his  sister  is  not  dead,  and  that  she  will  not  die, 
because  t:  len  he  would  be  a  murderer.  But  as  to  that — as  to 
any  chance  of  that  I — I  carried  her  home  in  my  arms,  and  bless 
your  heart  alive,  sir  I  . 

Horo  Diox  shakos  hla  gray  Itoiul,  and  tho  toars  trioklo  down  his  ohooks. 


SCENB  VI. 

A  bedchamber.  Aonks  is  lying  pale  and  apparently  lifeless  on  her  little 
bod.  Her  mother  and  IIklkn,  with  the  nurse,  are  olmflng  her  limbs  and 
applying  restoratives.    No  one  speaks. 

Enter  Fathkb  Dowmo. 

Father  D.  Sweet  little  lamb !  dear  to  our  Lord !  Your 
prayer  of  to-day  went  straight  up  to  heaven ;  it  was  soon  an- 
swered. 

He  kneels  beside  the  bed;  the  others  also  kneel.    A  pause. 

Father  D.  to  the  mother.    Was  there  any  thing  like  life  ? 
Mad  you,  have  yon,  any  hope  that  life  is  not  quite  extinct  ? 
.    Mother.  I  have  fancied,  fi:om  time  to  time,  that  there  was 
»  slight  pulsation  of  the  heart,  but  my  own  beats  bo  strongly 
^at  I  may  easily  be  mistaken. 

Fmheb  Doimna  places  his  iiand  on  the  child's  heart,  and  bemling  his  ear 
4lowr>  listenaatiNitfvttly ;  he  then  takes  a  gUuss  from  the  table,  sad  holds 
it  to  iter  month*  The  mother  watches  anxiousl;  He  gives  the  glass  to 
the  m(  ther. 

Mother.  The  glass  is  dunmed  by  her  breath,— she  lives  1 
Father  T).  No  thne  must  now  be  losa  in  givii^^  her  the  last 
lacrament  of  the  Church.    Perhi^  it  was  for  +bis  great  grace 


FLOWBM  FOB  TMK  ALTAR. 


336 


-blch  pl««l«  for  1*  ^  *r  If^  HhaU  bring  health  to  the 
Tick  M  ««U  w  (orgl»en««  to  the  ''"""^    ^  j,,jh„  Domioio 

^n^eZ  «;W«p«r«  to  Agnea .  ow    . 

SCBNB  VII. 
.    «...H.lt.watoWngbe.ld.thebod,Midfrom 

;S  Woom  on  her  cheek  »dfto"  h»d^.  J^  __^^^  ^ 
Cut  »  few  hours  «nee,  "'"^/J^'^aSighthl  to  .it  here,  if 
„pon  h«  bosom  «  ^  T'l  even  for  that  I  codd  never 
T^r.  oriy  to  h^  "er  b«ath^e«n  for    ^^ 
to  weary  of  tta«.kmg  God.  ^  ^  ^„,^  tut  «t 

Kk,  .0  »»T't"'t'»mtb'^tltorth»tI»*l'thav.h»ri 
here,  and  llrten  to  the  »°»  ™""^*  How  Uttle  we  thmk  of 
at  aW  time  for  the  tort  Be«n  ye»m^^  ,^^  ,e  are 

CJereie.  .vejy  day  ^tow«l  n^'-^l;;^^  ^  ^,^a  never 
Mver  without  them  1  Th'Jf^  "  „,  <«er  «p  ."ry  breath 
he  without  g~tit«de  to  Godl^  ^^J  ^^^  But  .eel 
of  my  Bte  now,  once  for  '^'"'^  ^01  clowd  Ae  m»h«. 
1  Love.,  .he  **..  i  J'*  ^er  ;y«^  ^^  ^^^  ,„  ^ 
the  iiign  of  the  «os8,  and  offer,  up  n 

'       jtjne..  I.  Oswald  there?  ^ou  .hall  not  we  OiwaM 

flaen.  No  .^reet^t  »  ^  J^  ^^  going  to  tea.,  you 
untU  you  vnsb  it  yonrseu. 
anymore. 


836 


THE  THIRD  BBADBR. 


Agnea.  Good  morning,  dear  Helen.  Give  me  a  kiss,  and 
then  ask  Oswald  to  come  to  me  directly ;  but  do  not  distnrb 
mamma,  for  she  wants  rest.  [Exit  Eden. 

SDter  Oswald. 

Agnet.  Come  hither,  dear ;  I  want  to  speak  to  yon. 

OtWALD  eomes  forward  in  tears,  and  bories  his  head  in  the  ooanterpane  as 
he  kneels  beside  Aonis.  A«nx8  puts  her  arm  round  liim,  and  draws 
him  near  enough  to  wliisper  in  his  ear— 

[  know  all  abont  it,  dear ;  I  know  what  yon  are  thinking  of. 
Oswald  beats  his  breast,  bat  does  not  say  a  word. 

My  poor  Oswald !  how  mnch  yon  haye  suffered !  Would  you 
do  any  thing  I  asked  yon  now  ? 

Oswald  kisses  her  hand  and  sobs. 

Yon  will.  Well,  then,  promise  me  that,  when  at  any  tune 
yon  think  of  yesterday  and  of  all  that  happened  to  us,  you 
will  think  of  it  this  way:  Once  upon  a  time  Almighty  God, 
in  his  infinite  mercy,  preserved  my  little  Agnes  in  a  wonderful 
way,  in  order  that  she  might  love  me  and  I  love  her,  and  both 
of  us  love  him  a  thousand  tunes  more  than  ever  we  did  before, 
or  ever  could  have  done  otherwise. 

Omoald.  I  will. 

Agnea.  And  when  yon  cannot  help  reproaching  yourself, 
you  vrill  not  do  it  more  unkindly  than  yon  can  help,  but  wiU 
say,  "  Out  of  this  fault,  with  God's  help,  sLaU  spring  ten  vir- 
tues!'' 

Oswald.  I  wiU. 

Agnea.  And  now,  dear  Oswald,  give  me  a  drink.  I  am 
still  very  weak,  but  shall  soon  be  well.  If  Helen  comes  in, 
tell  her  it  is  your  turn  to  watch.  There,  put  your  hand  under 
my  cheek,  that  I  may  kiss  it  when  I  awake.  That  is  nice ;  I 
can  go  to  sleep  again  now.  Good-night,  dear.  How  happy 
we  shall  all  be,  now,  if  Almighty  God  gives  us  the  grace  oi 
perseverance  to  the  end  1 

THE  END. 


'■  v~l"^fiftliit  11. ::  iiirSiiiijfl  fr: 


vry>,(|ir,l<B!!»r.a>— ■-»».T.r«riiim~ 


mi 


/ 


kiss,  and 
t  disturb 
It  Helen. 


a. 

iterpane  u 
and  dra\rs 


iking  of. 
buld  yon 


any  time 
)  us,  you 
hty  God, 
wonderful 
and  both 
id  before, 


yourself, 
I,  but  will 
I  ten  vir- 


k.  I  am 
comes  in, 
smd  under 
is  nice;  I 
ow  happy 
)  grace  oi 


